Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)
by Meysun
Summary: Thorin was small once. Struggling with brotherhood, learning to face grief and to start friendships. He was a child, in a wealthy Kingdom beginning to crumble from the inside. And then - the Dragon came.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N :** _And here it comes, Part II of the King of Carven Stone re-edited, and set in Erebor! The main modifications are in chapter 3, otherwise I just put a few more Khuzdûl nicknames. I am sorry it is not the update of the Tharbad-part (id est, the new chapter of "The King of Carven Stone"), but I want to finish editing : clears space in my mind, helps me write better :). The next chapter should come soon - in the meantime, thank you so much for (re)reading!  
_

 _PS: whenever you read a Dwarven age, simply divide it by half to get the Human equivalent - my own headcanon until Dwarves turn 24 :). I'll explain the rest when we get there! Take care, much love, Meysun._

* * *

 **The King of Carven Stone : Part II**

 **Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)**

 **1.**

It began in Halls of Stone, between high walls, cold and mighty as the Mountain itself.

Halls, staircases, passages and yards, all made of rock and stone, and I was looking at the depth under me, leaning against the wall behind the highest balustrade, watching the shades and shapes woven by the lights below on the dark and polished walls.

They say water is Nature's way of carving stone. Since that day I have always thought that firelight is its way to adorn it, with its infinite patterns of light and shadow.

"It is beautiful, laddie, is it not?"

The kind voice next to me startled me. I had forgotten the passage on my left, where guards were supposed to have a look now and then. I was very young, a small Dwarfling still, and my hair was yet too short to braid it, floating freely around my face.

"Black as a Raven...", my mother would say fondly, running her fingers through my locks.

And as I would frown in annoyance, she would bend softly towards me, take my face between her fingers and touch my forehead with hers.

"Do not worry, _thunbelê_. It will grow...", she would whisper, and I would lean into her embrace and bury my face in her shoulder, feeling warm and protected.

But not anymore. She was always busy now, with that stupid, useless, screaming little creature they said was my brother. I had told them it was not, angry, hurt and desperate to get their attention back.

"It's an Orc!", I had spat out, and my mother had looked up in dismay as my father had slapped me, leaving a hot and burning mark on my cheek.

I had run from our Halls, struggling against choking tears, not caring that I would get lost, and when my legs could carry me no more, because I had climbed higher than the highest staircase, I had slumped against the wall and wept bitterly. Tired and spent, I had been sitting there silent and motionless, gazing at the lights dancing upon the stone.

Until a voice raised me.

I struggled to get back on my feet, making sure my face was clear of tears, but the Dwarf that had just stepped out on the balcony laid his hand upon my shoulder.

"No need to stir, lad. It is a nice place to rest. I suppose you do not mind sharing it for a little while?"

I looked at his face, taking him in. He was younger than my father, with a large nose and long brown hair, and a very full and bushy chestnut beard. His eyes were bright, with little wrinkles on their corners, just as if he was smiling, and yet he was not.

"I don't mind", said I with a cracked voice, shifting a little to give him some space.

He sat himself on the floor next to me, stretching his legs with a comfortable groan, and for a while we both stayed silent.

I was in awe of him; I had never talked to any guard before, because my father used to settle things with them, leaving me to play alone or with my mother. But not anymore.

"You are Thráin's little son, are you not?", the Dwarf finally asked in a gentle voice.

"I am Thorin", I answered, trying to steady myself. "And I am not his little son, not anymore."

If the challenge in my voice amused him, he did not show it. He seemed to ponder my words for a while.

"How so, Thorin? You cannot simply stop to be somebody's son, don't you think?

\- Yes you can!", I said fiercely. "Because he just got himself another one, and he likes him more.

\- I do not think so...", the Dwarf replied softly, and these words freed my tears again despite of myself.

"Yes he does!", I managed to thrust back to him, between hot and angry sobs. "Everybody does! They think he is cute and adorable and sweet, but he only wails and cries and keeps everybody awake, and no one cares about me anymore! It is always _Thorin be quiet, your brother is sleeping_ , _Thorin not now, your brother has to eat_ , _Thorin be a good lad and try to amuse yourself, you are old enough now_..."

I was sobbing so hard now that my body was shaking.

"I don't want to be old enough! I don't like him, I don't want him with us and... and... if they like him better than me, then I... then I won't come back!

\- Now, now...", the Dwarf said soothingly.

He put his large hand on my shoulder and pulled me close to him, rubbing my back roughly as I was crying myself out again. And I did not mind and just stayed like this, with my cheek on his hard mesh coat, soaking it with my tears.

"And where would you go, laddie, eh..?"

I wiped my nose, pulling slightly back from his embrace.

"To Dale.

\- Oh, to Dale... I see..."

He was still rubbing my back, and after this second outburst, exhaustion was slowly invading me.

"I will tell you what would happen if you leave these halls to go to Dale, Thorin-beloved-first-son-of-Thráin. Your parents would both weep, and search Mountain and Valley for you, not resting until they would find you.

\- No they would not.", I said stubbornly.

The Dwarf chuckled.

"You are proud, lad, you are indeed. And yet I can tell you they would, because you are as dear to them as their own life. Because they love you, and always will, no matter how far you go and how long you hide.

\- Not anymore..."

He shook his head at my words.

"Your brother is very small, Thorin, and helpless. He cannot walk, nor get his food without help, because he is still a babe, as you were once. And he needs to be cared for just as you did.

\- No I didn't!"

I broke free from his embrace and he smiled at the indignation glowing in my eyes.

"'Course you did. Endless days and nights, and a pretty number of songs it took to lull you to sleep, I can tell you... I saw your ' _adad_ carry you in his arms and sing for you for hours and hours until you would at last choose to close your eyes...

\- You did?"

I was too astonished to try to deny it. The Dwarf nodded with a smile.

"It is your brother's turn to be small, and to require attention. And soon you will see him grow and cling to you and amuse you and you will be so glad to have him there that you will not believe that you could have lived so long without him. It happened to me, you know...

\- Really?"

He nodded again.

"Yes. He is away for now, and barely older than you, I left him with my parents in the Iron Hills. I have long lived without him, and yet I could not imagine life without him now."

Somehow, deep inside myself, I could feel that he was right. I leant against him once more, my hot cheek against the iron of his chainmail.

"They won't want me anymore. I said he was an Orc."

The Dwarf's body shook against mine in silent laughter.

"Did you, laddie? You are a wee one, you are indeed..."

His hand ruffled my hair.

"Do not worry. I am sure they will want you back.

\- Can I stay with you if they won't?"

I had asked shyly, and this time the Dwarf stayed silent for a second, a little stunned. Then he stood up, lifting me in his arms and placing me on his hip.

"Sure, laddie. And when they will take you back – because they _will_ – and if you get bored or lonely, you can always come down to the Guards' Halls and ask for Balin.

\- Balin...", I repeated softly, settling closer against him, tired to the bone and rocked by his even pace as he was beginning to climb down the stairs.

"Balin son of Fundin, yes."

I closed my eyes, soothed by his calm voice and by the fact that he was carrying me back to my parents, saving me from facing them alone. I fell asleep, however, long before we left the last staircase behind us, because I was still a small Dwarfling counting only six winters.

"I found him, Thráin. In the upper Halls..."

His voice woke me, as did the movement that made me shift from his arms into another strong and warm embrace. I knew this scent and these hands, and I could only sink deeper into them, wanting their grip around me to last forever.

"A wee lad, with an iron will and a brave little heart..."

I opened my eyes just a tiny bit – I did not want my father to put me down on the floor and be angry again, it was better to pretend to be still asleep. And half-asleep I was, but still I saw Balin's swift wink, and knew since that day that he would always be my friend.

And I would too, I promised myself, before giving in to sleep, with dreams of stone and shadows, and soft whispers among the flames.

* * *

 **Neo-Kuzdûl translations** :

\- _thunbelê_ : my little thunder, Thorin's nickname as a child

\- _'adad_ : father.


	2. Chapter 2

**The King of Carven Stone : Part II**

 **Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)**

 **2.**

I can still feel it, the gentle warmth of the stone against my chest, radiating through the soft blue fabric of my tunic, and the fresh smell of earth and herbs growing on the top of the Mountain.

I was lying there, my chin resting on my folded arms, lost in day-dreams about Dale and its mysteries, that continued to fascinate me despite Balin's efforts to answer all my questions about those Men that were living there and that I still had not met.

Some years had passed and my hair was longer now. A while ago, my father's eyes had shone with pride and love when he had finished to weave my first braid and fastened it with a carved silver bead. But I was still very young, and years would pass until my beard would start to grow – at that time my face was still bare and easy to read.

Or so my grandfather said. He was the strongest being I knew, excepting my father, and he loved to fight against me, even though the weapons we used were still blunted. And I loved to fight him, despite the pain he would always inflict me, because I was slender, young and inexperienced. I had never beaten him to this day, and as a matter of fact my right wrist ached from a nasty twist of his iron grip, as once again I had tried to take him by surprise and failed.

"Not very subtle, _sigindashat_...", he had said, twisting my arm, making me drop my weapon with the pain.

But I had not made a sound and his eyes had shone with repressed pride.

"Yet it was brave of you to try."

He had released me from his grip and had patted my shoulder.

"Enough for today."

His blue gaze – much paler than mine – had rested a while on my face and then he had turned, shouldering his axe with a majestic movement, regaining the Halls and returning to his many errands.

I had climbed to my favourite place and stretched myself out in the sun, dreaming of the day when I would be strong and majestic too, and where everyone would think me one of the best warriors of King Thrór's guard.

"What are you doing?"

I frowned in annoyance when I heard the high-pitched voice of my little brother Frerin. Of course he had to follow me again, he always did, it was almost like I had a second shadow.

"Give me some air, Frerin, will you?"

He did not even bother to listen, and stretched himself next to me, his golden hair flowing in the wind, short and curly. His body was soft and even smaller than mine, and there were still dimples on the back of his hands.

He rested his head on my right shoulder, weaving golden and raven locks together. And he frowned when he saw the bruise on my wrist, touching it softly with his little fingers.

"Does it hurt much, Thorin?", he asked anxiously, and I smiled, every fibre of my being warmed by such unconditional love.

"'Course not..."

I sat up and grabbed him from behind, pulling him towards me so that his back was resting on my chest. I wrapped my arms around his waist and Frerin laughed as I bent towards him, tickling his face with my braids.

"Why do you have to follow me everywhere, you _annoying – little – rascal_?"

I had spoken with the deepest voice I could reach, still tickling him, and Frerin was screaming with laughter.

"You _small_ – _useless_ – _piece_ of a Dwarf?"

The more I was insulting him, the more he was laughing, his glee echoing on the Mountain like silver bells. And I would never admit it, but it was one of the sounds I loved most.

"I am going to eat you alive...

\- No you won't!", he gasped between tears of laughter.

"First I will try one of these tasty little fingers..."

I lifted his hands to my mouth, pretending to bite him, and he screamed and giggled and struggled against my chest.

"And then I will see how much fat is in this belly..."

I had quickly grasped at his stomach and he jumped up.

"I am not fat, Thorin! You are the fat one!"

By that time I was laughing too, and I let him struggle and push me and drum on my chest with his little fists, just lying back on the stone, letting Frerin spend himself entirely.

Once he had done, he just threw himself upon me, hot and breathless, and I put one arm around him, pushing him away just a tiny bit – as a matter of principle.

"I think I'll throw you down the Mountain into the stream below, so that once in your life, your skin meets water...

\- I bathed", Frerin said, unmoved.

"Yes. Three days ago."

He chuckled – that little plague was actually proud of it! – and then he lifted his head from my chest.

"Seriously now, Thorin...", he said, not noticing the smile his earnest words were drawing on my lips. "Why do you always climb so high that it takes _ages_ to reach you?

\- Maybe because I do not want you to reach me..."

I watched his grey eyes cloud a little and could not repress the fondness in my voice when I added, quickly:

"Or maybe I wanted you to come so that I could show you Dale...

\- Dale?!"

Frerin's face was shining with excitement, his eyes locked in mine. I nodded, slowly, and then I sat up, taking his hand in mine.

"Come. I'll show you, _kudz_."

He jumped to his feet and followed me close to the Mountain's edge. I told him not to move and he did not, gazing intently at the Valley at our feet, the back of his head against my chest, as I was drawing his attention to every place I could remember.

"This tower there is called Ravenhill. There is a watchtower where the Ravens stand guard, high above the waterfall that guides the River down, down, down… to the city you can see there, right in front of us.

\- Is it Dale?", Frerin asked eagerly, and I nodded again.

"Yes. It is Dale. Look at the towers, and the big houses, and the arches, and the walls... It is a city of Men, and all the precious stones and weapons, and jewellery, and everything we make here in Erebor is bought by the City and sent with ships down the River Running, making grandfather's Kingdom and its many skills famous in all Middle Earth... _Everybody_ has heard of Erebor, Frerin, and _everyone_ knows the name of the King under the Mountain...

\- And one day it will be you, Thorin."

My little brother had spoken proudly, with confidence and joy, and yet I felt my chest tighten and something cold spread through my body as his words reached me.

"Yes.", I said, trying to fight the dread that had invaded me for a second. "One day. But not before a very long time."

 _I hope_ , I added inwardly. Because I already knew what it meant to have a new King. My father had explained it to me, as he had taken me deep down into the Mountain, where older Kings were buried, sleeping in tombs of stone.

I did not want my grandfather to lie there, or my father, and I silently breathed this wish as I was gazing down on the Valley with my brother.

I thought afterwards, many years later in dark and sleepless nights, that we should take great care in the choice we make when we allow wishes to cross our lips.

Because I was granted this one innocent request, and never saw the tomb of Thrór nor Thráin next to the others down in the Mountain. And I grieved for it, and still feel the weight of sadness and despair at the thought of it.

But that day we did not think of tombs, nor grief, and our only thoughts of war were in fanciful plays where we imagined ourselves to be warriors. As Frerin and I gazed down on Dale's domed roofs, gilded by the fading sunlight, we were only dreaming of days to come, picturing them to be as full of warmth and light as this sunny afternoon.

We were wrong, of course, and yet...

Raven and golden locks, woven together in mute happiness, the warmth of the sun and the fresh smell of earth and herbs growing on the top of the Mountain...

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations** :

\- _sigindashat_ : grandson

\- _kudz_ : short for _kudzaduz_ , tiny golden coin, Thorin's nickname for Frerin.


	3. Chapter 3

**The King of Carven Stone : Part II**

 **Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)**

 **3.**

It is very thin, the veil between life and death, between unspeakable grief and heart-wringing joy. Such is the lesson my sister taught me from the very moment of her birth, because it was also the day of my mother's death.

I remember her drawn and pale features, as she struggled to stay conscious and look at our faces one last time, while the stream of blood leaving her body had already made her too weak to speak.

I leant towards her, my chest hurting with fear and grief, and touched her forehead with mine. She smiled and closed her eyes, and her fingers in mine relaxed as one last soft breath escaped her lips, meeting my cheek.

That day I learnt to weep inwardly. Tears choked my voice but did not reach my eyes, because Frerin was crying so hard he could barely stand, his fingers still clutched around my mother's hand.

"Come...", I whispered, gently loosening his grip from hers. "Come, Frerin."

He turned away from her, clinging to me instead, burying his face in my chest, and I put my hands on his head, keeping him close. My father was standing motionless and pale next to the bed, struck mute by a pain so terrible and deep that it hurt to look at him, and I felt suddenly as if we were intruders.

"Come", I repeated, and I slowly took Frerin out of my mother's room, guiding him because he would not lift his head from my chest.

That night he did not leave my side, and it was late and dark when I finally heard his sobs quieten and his breathing become slow and even. We were both stretched on my bed, his face resting on my chest, his hair spread against the dark fabric of my shirt, just like a thousand golden threads.

I had run my fingers through his locks for hours, on and on, without a word, listening to his sobs and feeling his tears fall on my skin, wondering why I could not grieve. Yet as I eventually felt Frerin's body sag against mine, heavy with exhaustion and sleep, the calm despair that had allowed me to hold on until then suddenly broke free.

I looked up at the ceiling, feeling my breath choke, and lifted my chin, not wanting Frerin to feel my tears. They were running freely, hot and silent streams against the thin whiskers that had barely begun to shadow my cheeks, and I did not check them, only forcing myself to breathe evenly, so as not to wake Frerin.

It was later still when that grief began to ebb temporarily, leaving me broken and exhausted, too numb to stir. Yet I startled when I heard a soft knock at my door, and managed to free myself from Frerin's embrace without waking him. I reached the door silently, quickly brushed my eyes with my sleeve and straightened my shirt in a hopeless attempt to look decent.

"Thorin, lad."

The Dwarf looking at me was dark-haired, with expressive eyes and a dark beard woven in two thick, stern braids. He was an elder, distant cousin of mine called Óin – one of the healers, who was sent for whenever Frerin or me were ailing. It happened rarely enough, and I was always a bit in awe of him, for his temper was as short as his skills were sharp.

That night, however, there was nothing but sadness in Óin's face. He crouched – for I was still small, a child of fourteen learning to deal with grief – and his dark eyes found mine. No doubt he noticed my reddened eyes, and the way I trembled – because I was beginning to realise there was no waking-up. This was no nightmare. ' _Amad_ was gone forever, and she would never kiss Frerin and me to sleep anymore. There would be no more warm embraces, no soft whispered words, no songs, no music…

Óin did not say a word. He just placed a hand on my shoulder, with unusual softness – and then he pulled me against him, slowly. I do not know how long I stood like this, trembling yet not shedding a tear – I just know he held me until my shivers ebbed, until my body was so still and cold I almost felt like stone. Yet stones did not feel that kind of wordless terror, that kind of choking grief...

"Thorin, lad, are you with me?"

Óin's rough hand against my cheek. He was scooping me up, carrying me on his hip, and I buried my face in his shoulder when we passed my mother's room, but he was not taking me there. He opened the door leading to the nursery, that room we had spent so much time in with Frerin, wondering when our sibling would be there at last…

I barely stirred when he placed me on one of the low cushions – but then someone was near me and it was Balin, and I let out a broken sound as he hugged me, cradling me against him, carding his fingers through my hair.

"Oh laddie…"

He kept his arms around me even when Óin reappeared, handing me a cup, ordering me to drink. And I obeyed, feeling the cool water soothe some of the ache in my throat, while Balin brushed my back, keeping me grounded.

"Frerin", I croaked, in the end – my first word since I had realised the unthinkable. "He's alone. He'll be scared.

\- I already fetched him, lad.", Óin said. "You'll both sleep here tonight."

I nodded, feeling empty, and Balin cradled me once more. I buried my face in his chest and he bent, pressing a quiet kiss on my locks, rocking me slowly.

"Will you stay?", I whispered, clinging to him, and Balin kissed me once more.

"Of course I will. I will stay with Frerin and you, and _u'mad_ Oda will help us with the baby.

\- The… the baby?"

It had never entered my mind. Never since we had been summoned at my mother's side, and I suddenly felt horror-struck at the idea that my small sibling had been left all this time without care.

I broke free from Balin's embrace and he smiled. Sadly, yet with a touch of his usual warmth.

"Yes, Thorin. It is sleeping in the room next door. Would you like to see it?"

I nodded, my pain temporarily forgotten – feeling something stir in my chest, something stronger than grief and exhaustion. And so I took Balin's hand, and let him lead me slowly towards the baby's room, and the small cradle. A young Dwarrowdam was rocking it slowly with her foot, her face sad, looking as shocked as we all felt, but trying to compose herself as she saw me.

I heard a soft moan, and let go of Balin's hand – and then I walked towards the cradle. Slowly, haltingly, feeling my heart hammer in my chest. Oda smiled at me, and then I bent, towards my sibling, finally able to look and _see_.

It had been taken care of. It's tiny face was clean, and the woollen clothes it was wearing looked warm enough, but it was still wailing, quietly, and I looked up to Oda, anxiously – asking her silently what was the matter.

"She has been washed, and fed, _uzbad-dashatê._ But she has some trouble falling asleep.

\- She...?", I breathed, finally bending down to take a closer look at my new-born sister.

She let out another pitiful little cry and my throat tightened.

"Has no one been to see her?", I asked, and Oda shook her head, her eyes full of sorrow.

"I am so sorry", I whispered, at last bringing myself to touch her, gently pushing back one tiny lock from her perfectly rounded forehead.

"So sorry you had to wait..."

The baby stirred softly at my caress and I felt something warm spread through my chest, easing the iron grip of sadness and hurt. I looked at Oda, and she smiled, helping me to place one hand behind her neck and another under her back. And I lifted her to hold her close to my chest, amazed to see that there was already such a profusion of raven hair growing on her small head.

I bent down to touch it with my lips, rocking her gently as she let out another soft cry – and as I breathed in her soft baby-scent, I suddenly felt as if my heart was going to burst. As if something still made sense – as if there was still joy, and warmth, and hope, something worth the hurt.

"Don't cry, _mamarlûna_...", I whispered, kissing her again. "Don't cry. You're not alone. You'll never be alone anymore, I promise you. _Mamarlûna…_ Just wait until ' _adad_ sees you. And Frerin. They will love you. Everybody will love you. You little treasure you… You jewel you…"

She had stopped wailing and was gazing at me, her eyes unseeing yet, but unwavering. Her tiny hand tightened around my little finger and I smiled. My voice was soothing her, and I sat down at Oda's prompt, making myself comfortable in one of the armchairs, Oda and Balin hovering close.

"I'm sure you recognise me. I'm your brother, and Frerin is too, and we will never ever leave you alone, so there's no need to cry, _mamarlûna_ , no need to be afraid... I'm there, and Balin is, and _u'mad_ Oda here as well…"

She let out the tiniest of yawns and closed her eyes, her head bumping gently against my chest.

"That's right, _mamarlûna_. You sleep. I'm here."

I went on cooing and inventing sweet names for her, and every once in a while I would bend and kiss her raven locks. And my eyes burned again with tears, as I wondered why joy and grief could be so close that they seemed to mingle in my heart.

I fell asleep curled up on the armchair, with little Dís still sheltered in my arms.

Dís.

My one and only sister, whose small being kept my grief at bay, allowing me to stand by my father and comfort my brother, without breaking down myself. Giving me strength and small moments of joy, after my mother's burial had added another tomb to our lower Halls.

It was I who called her Dís, that night, the name brought to my lips without thinking, like a gift from the Gods – and Dís she was Named, seven months afterwards, once Mahal's views upon her Soul had become clear, once the sharpest edge of sorrow had dulled for us.

For several days though, I was everything to her, because my father was too full of grief and my brother too small to help me take care of her. I would come to her and hold her, touch her small forehead with my lips, and sing her softly to sleep – every day and every night.

Later of course, Dís would also become the sunshine of their skies. But at that time, she was my one and only, my pride and joy, my solace and my comfort.

Balin says that is why. That is why, when Dís was old enough to fully open her eyes, and enough time had passed so that their colour was not meant to change anymore, her dark blue eyes were the exact mirror of mine. And that is why, no matter what I would say or do, she would always know everything I was hiding from her.

My Dís, my beautiful, my _mamarlûna,_ my solace and my comfort...

How I made you suffer and yet how I loved you, and still do. Even now I failed you. Even now I took everything from you, even now I left you alone, despite my promises, despite everything you gave me. Even now, though you cannot see me and will never hold me again.

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations** :

\- ' _amad_ : mother

\- _u'mad_ : nourisher, my best Khuzdûl substitute for the word "nanny"

\- _uzbad-dashatê_ : my Prince

\- _mamarlûna_ : she who is loved, Thorin's nickname for Dís.


	4. Chapter 4

**The King of Carven Stone : Part II**

 **Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)**

 **4.**

Rock, stone and gems. I remember how astonished I was when I was told that the precious and glittering stones our goldsmiths used for jewellery had the same essence and core than the hard rocks of the Mountain. I could not believe it at first, it was too strange an idea. But I did not dispute it – an elder Dwarf had told me so, who was I to doubt him?

It is not in my nature to trust blindly without asking questions, it never was. But when it came down to crafts and knowledge, to shaping metal and stone, I knew to hold my tongue and listen eagerly to everything I was fortunate enough to be taught. I was curious, but above all, I knew I had to learn and be among the best, since I was the King's grandson.

Not so Frerin.

He had grown, my sunny little brother, but the science of crystals and naming stones, of learning how to shape them was boring him to death – to the great damn of our teachers, who often swore that if they would turn out hair- and beardless, it would be Frerin's fault.

Neither did he enjoy the work in the forge, because weapons interested him barely more than jewels. He found it smoky, hot and crowded, and he was never happier than when he could leave work, steal to the kitchen, snatch some food away and run out to Dale.

Dale.

We both loved the city, each one in a different way.

Frerin loved the people, he enjoyed to hear their new songs, and to see the children of Men play in the beautiful carousels: he had many friends among them, and I wished sometimes that our teachers could take a look on the marvellous and interesting toys he shaped for them with what he had scraped from the forge.

Riders on small-wheeled horses that would hop up and down if you made them roll on the floor. Boxes that would start to play music if you turned a secret key on their sides. Once, he even created a drinking cup for two people _at the same time_ : it had the shape of a woman with a broad adorned dress, and her arms held above her head carried a small basket that could spin on itself. It was hard to drink from it, and one of the drinkers had better be shorter than the other, but it was possible – and Dale's children spent an entire afternoon trying it.

They kept talking of the golden-haired Prince, of his incredible toys and his wonderful stories – because Frerin never created anything without inventing a whole context for it, and I sometimes wondered what first came to life in his mind. As it was, Frerin just had to whistle a tune when he came down the marketplace, and the children of Dale would come running, beaming with anticipated joy.

As for me, I loved the knowledge, this eye Dale held wide open to the world. Boats from entire Middle Earth sailed up the River Running, both to Dale and Esgaroth. The men arriving had seen places unknown to me, they talked of cities and harbours far away, of landscapes and Mountains so savage and broad that my mind struggled to conceive them.

I would come back and search for the maps in our libraries, trying to find these places on old, half-erased drawings, and sometimes I had to seek help. I asked my father, trying to make him talk to me – he had seen much of the world, fought many wars, known many Men, and I was sure he must have been to every place they spoke about in Dale.

I wanted him to talk to me, to share his knowledge with me, to be smiling and happy just as he was before my mother's death. But Thráin had grown silent and thoughtful, and though he was always patient with me, his words were ever scarce and his smile even rarer. I soon understood that he was not enjoying my questions, since they brought him back to happier times, where he was still young and full of hope, where my mother still lived.

He was always thinking of her, I knew it, and often would go down to her tomb and sit there, quietly, resting in the shadow of stones, his tattooed face dark and his remaining eye closed. And no one save Dís would dare to fetch him there – often we would go down, carrying her through the staircases, and then make her go the last steps alone.

"Go, Dís.", we would whisper. "Tell him to come up, dinner's waiting."

And my little sister would go, walking on unsteady legs with her arms outstretched, reaching for Thráin's dark and massive silhouette, unafraid of the cold and mighty tombs around her.

" _'Adá_..."

This was her way to say it, back then, and it never failed to make Thráin stir, getting up and hoisting Dís on his hip.

"Thorin says come up. He says we're hungry."

I would flee up the stairs as soon as I saw him moving towards Dís, not wanting to talk to him, not wanting to be among the tombs – I was sick of his grief and felt guilty about it. He had loved my mother and loved her still, and so did I, so why was it I could not understand his sadness? Why was it I refused to grieve, had I loved her less? Was it making me a cold-hearted and selfish son, only dreaming to go away...?

So I sought the Men, the Guards and the travellers in Dale, eager to hear their news, to listen to their adventures, to look at their weapons and the wares they brought with them. And I think they liked to show them to me and talk to me.

They knew who I was, the Raven-Prince they used to call me, and I did not mind, because in their mouths it was no jest. They could see the tower of Ravenhill high above Dale, they knew how skilled our warriors were and had heard of the Drakes our people had slain and of the Orcs our armies had killed. And they knew we liked Ravens, using them to adorn our shields, so that the name they gave me could only please me.

I went unarmed to Dale of course, save for my sword, just to assure and remind them that I too had just taken my oath to defend Erebor and its lands. Though I had not seen battle yet, I knew how to wield sword and axe and was strong enough to carry my own shield. Young and inexperienced as I was, Men welcomed me among their circle, and it warmed my heart. I was glad to be noticed and accepted, though it made me sad to think it was easier with them than with my father.

I did not actually talk as much as I listened, and their words brought me far away from Erebor, to landscapes, Men and cities with strange and beautiful names. Cities of Men – I wondered if their Kings were as powerful as my grandfather, and thought it unlikely, after all Erebor _was_ the mightiest kingdom of Middle Earth.

Or so I thought, fool that I was.

And fool that I was, I dreamt of the days my path would lead me beyond the Mountain and the Lake. I dreamt of journeys and adventures, not knowing they are nothing like the tales shape them – polished and smoothed, looking bright and shiny, just like jewels are made of stone.

Jewels and stones. Precious gems. How we Dwarves love them, and how many aches and sorrows it brought us.

It was about this time, I think, that it happened. The day we found our Treasure and our Bane – our Bane, yes, I see it clearly now, when it is almost too late.

I can see us both, Frerin and I, coming back from Dale late in the afternoon, the last rays of the sun warming our backs as we went down to Erebor, crossing golden barley fields, listening to the river's murmur. What we discussed I forgot – no doubt Frerin did the main talking, or perhaps he was singing. Yes, I think he must have been singing, his voice mingling with the river's silvery tune, as he often did... And then he bade me to sing with him...

What a strange book memory is, flipping long forgotten pages open when we expect it last...

"You have a deeper voice than me. You do the back vocals, Thorin. Make it Dwarven, and I'll just make it beautiful."

I laughed at him, stopping close to the golden fields, my eyes narrowed, blinded by the last rays of the sun.

"Do you realise it means the same?", I asked. "If I make it Dwarven, I _already_ make it beautiful. I don't need you for that."

I was jesting, of course. Frerin had a good voice, and what was more, he knew how to shape words – even better than toys. But then, he almost talked as much as he breathed.

"Right, you overbearing Prince of a Dwarf. Come on then. Sing. And don't you dare ask me for help."

He sat himself on a flat stone, cross-legged, shielding his brow with his hand, looking at me with shining grey eyes, his hair as light as the fields behind him.

I sighed and shook my head.

"There is no time for this. We are already late, the sun is setting.

\- Getting cold feet, _uzbad-dashatê_?"

He had not moved a bit, and still looked at me defiantly. Of course I could not let it stand.

"I would sing anything, if it makes you _move_.

\- Alright", Frerin said. "You don't lack songs, when it comes to Dís, do you?"

I smiled then, and cleared my throat. I looked at him, my brother, so happy and merry on his stone, and at the dark grey walls of Erebor with the giant statues of our Dwarven Guards.

Then I sang. Very quietly, very deep, as Dwarves sing when they want to make it meaningful.

.

" _There's gold in the valley, silver in the mines_

 _On fair fields of barley, the setting sun shines_

 _Grey walls of the Mountain, the treasures you hold_

 _Are mightier even than silver and gold_

 _._

 _The great doors are open, the evening calls_

 _It's time to find shelter again in your walls_

 _My Treasure is waiting, in her shining eyes_

 _The most precious diamond of Durin's folk lies_

 _._

 _I may dream of going, reaching horizon_

 _That place where the sun turns slowly to crimson_

 _And maybe one day, I'll find out and see_

 _These places they talk of where I long to be_

 _._

 _Yet now I am home-bound, like you, brother-love,_

 _The first star has risen in the sky above_

 _We may dream of journeys, of tales to be told_

 _But now we'll go back, as this day grows old_

 _._

 _We'll go back, our hearts warm, turning home once more_

 _Keep watching, my Treasure, we'll be at the door._ "

.

I repeated the last words, softly, and then was silent again. My gaze fell back on Frerin and I was surprised to see his smile had vanished. He was sitting very upright on the stone, his feet on the ground, clutching the edge with his fingers, his eyes burning and intent.

"What is the matter?", I asked, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "You promised to _move_ , remember?"

He shook himself then, getting up with a shudder, and I took his arm, taking him back on the road. He did not speak, and I did not like it at all, it was so unusual, so I ended up stopping and gave him a little shove.

"What is it? Am I really such a terrible singer? You might as well say so, I don't care."

I grinned at him and he shook his head, still earnest and pale.

"It was beautiful. But it made me sad. I don't know why, Thorin. You made it sound as if... as if everything you loved was already gone. As if you had lost it and yearned for it."

He had tears in his eyes – my soulful and unique brother, what a strange mind of yours... That he should have said so, years before his words came true, that this song made him weep from the very first day, long before it would become a lament in our exile... I cannot explain it, not then, nor since, and that day I just waved his sadness away.

"What _nonsense_ , Frerin. How should I lose this?"

I made a broad move with my arms, encompassing Erebor, Dale, the sky and the Mountain, and I smiled.

"Even if I tried to lose you, I could not. I've learned this lesson long ago, I've tried everything to get rid of you, it just would not do."

He grinned then, at last.

"Serves you right.", he grunted, and then he grasped my hand and pulled me behind him. "Come on, we're late.

\- What the..." – my voice choked with indignation, for it was _him_ who had kept us on the road all this time.

Frerin laughed and I let out my breath, exasperated.

"The nerve you have...", I growled, and then we both began to run, for it really was late and we did not want to beg the guards to let us in – it amused them too much.

We arrived at the door moments before the sun disappeared behind the Mountain, and the guards, instead of giving us a hard time, barring our way with their spears as they usually would, waved us in, in an excited and urgent way.

"Come on, quickly! You have been expected long ago! The King wants you both with him, you are to go immediately!"

We looked at each other, puzzled, and they pushed us in.

"What's the matter?", Frerin asked, and as if to answer his question, Balin came running down the main staircase.

Well, not running down, he had too much dignity for that. But he definitely came down quickly, and smiled at us.

"Lads, you will want to see that.", he said in his warm and mysterious voice. "Come and see the King's new Treasure."

And though Frerin would ask and beg, trying to find out what it was, Balin would not answer him. He took us straight to the gallery of Kings, where the throne was and where all the guards seemed to be assembled.

"Finally", Thrór said, his voice vibrating through the hall, full of glee and pride. "Let my grandsons step forward, and see what we found."

I looked at my father, standing close to the throne with Dís on his hip. His face betrayed nothing, as usual, but my grandfather's was shining, his light blue eyes sparkling.

"Step forward", he repeated, and Frerin and I climbed the stairs as quickly as we could, standing breathless and wondering in front of the King.

Thrór smiled, and removed a velvet cloth from the small table before him. It was then we saw it. The Treasure and Bane of Durin's line. White, sparkling, dazzlingly beautiful, almost alive.

The Arkenstone.

I remember my breath choked when my eyes fell upon it. It was perfect, without the impurities so frequently found in white gems. Not transparent, yet full of light that changed and shifted, every time you would move it even so slightly.

"Who made it?", I whispered, amazed by the quality of its shaping.

"No one", Thrór answered. "It was found, in the heart of the Mountain itself. There it lay, only waiting to be discovered, and now that it is we will praise it, honour it and cherish it. I will make it the King's Jewel, a symbol of the blessing of Durin's folk and the might of Erebor, for everyone to see."

He smiled, and all the guards cheered. It was hard to take my eyes away from the stone – it was so perfect, so beautiful, I longed to touch it and yet I did not dare, it looked too sacred. It was the King's Jewel, and I was not the King.

There was a great feast that night, and everyone was merry, listening to Thrór's plan to carve the stone into his throne, as a symbol of his might. For little did we know what power we had unleashed in our never-ending quest for jewels and gems.

The only one that did not care for the stone was Dís. Its light blinded her and she buried her face in my shoulder, displeased, when I carried her to the Arkenstone so that she too could see it.

Perhaps I should have felt dread, that day, just as my brother and sister had felt it, each one in their own way. But I was blind, as we all were, and when my vision cleared – alas! – it was too late.

The King's Jewel. Treasure and Bane of Durin's line indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

**The King of Carven Stone : Part II**

 **Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)**

 **5.**

When I think of the Arkenstone now, there is only dread, guilt and fear in my heart. I never touched it, not then, not since – and when I saw it again, at last, it was in the Bargeman's hand. Held away from me. Mocking me. Pulling me away from my friends and family, as it always did.

But at the beginning, its curse held itself at bay, for several months... or so it seemed. And what the Arkenstone first brought us was getting closer to our family, to our distant relatives in the Iron Hills.

The other Dwarven lords from the seven families had come, to look at the wonderful jewel, the Heart of the Mountain, and pay their homage to Thrór. But Náin and Fundin came as kin, since they were cousins of my father, and they brought their sons with them.

"What are they like, Thorin?", Frerin whispered, as he stood on the ramparts above the gate, looking at the edge of the hills where they were supposed to arrive.

"You saw Dáin and Dwalin once. Balin told me.

\- I don't remember. I was too small."

I was standing next to him, and as often I carried Dís on my hip. She had insisted to watch out with us, and had braided her hair carefully, fastening it with the silver clasps I had made for her.

She wore a dark purple dress, tight around her slender waist with a black belt of silk, and under her dress she had put on black trousers of the same material and her best leather boots, adorned with carved silver. Her arms were bare and wrapped around my neck, and her head gently rested against my shoulder.

She looked lovely, and it was all I could do not to tell her – I did not want her to become vain and self-obsessed, and she never was.

"Balin is very happy."

I turned to cast a look at Dís, it was just like her, to speak out quiet little truths, she was such a keen observer and took so many things in...

"Yes.", I stated. "He missed his family very much, I think.

\- But he says we are his family as well."

Dís lifted her face from my shoulder, smiling at me. She was right, actually Balin was a cousin of ours too – our great-grandfathers had been brothers. After his father's death against the terrible drake that also took his younger brother's life, Thrór had returned with his people to Erebor, while his youngest brother Grór took another path and chose to settle in the Iron Hills. And Farin, their cousin – Balin's grandfather – had followed Grór, which was why Balin's family was not living with us.

I had asked Balin once why he left them, why he chose to come to Erebor, to live with us, and without them. And he answered that he felt closer to that Mountain than to any other. I had not pressed him any further that day, or any other day. I was grateful for his presence, he was one of my father's closest friends, even though he was much younger. And he was so wise, so open, always glad to share what he knew...

But when I think about it, I wonder... Maybe Balin felt a duty towards Erebor too. He always strained to preserve and share the Dwarven knowledge, he was so patient to all the Dwarflings and so proud with our progresses. Perhaps he felt he was more needed here than in the Iron Hills – and that Erebor with all its crafts and knowledge had more to give to him.

"We are his family too", I answered that day to Dís, pulling back a dark loose lock behind her ear. "But I think that brothers and sisters, well... It's even stronger than cousins. And that is why Balin is so happy. Everyone he cares for will finally be together."

Dís pondered my words for a while. She was so light I could hold her with one arm only. The other rested on the ramparts, and I slightly brushed the wall with my fingertips. The stone was warmed by the sun, and I enjoyed its rough touch against my palm.

"You are nervous."

My fingers tightened slightly around Dís' waist and I frowned at Frerin.

"Why should I be?"

He shrugged his shoulders, his grey eyes light and playful as ever.

And he was right. Nervous I was indeed, and I had lied to him saying I did not remember my cousins. Dáin and Dwalin had left impressive memories, back then when Frerin was so little he wouldn't remember.

I must have been about ten years old, and recalled them as loud, strong and boisterous giants, that both impressed and frightened me. They were both older than me – a few summers only, but back then it mattered – and would stare at me with amused looks, making fun of me and bothering me every time I would dare to cross their paths.

"Grow a beard first, Thorin", Dáin would say, his Khuzdûl broader than the way my parents spoke it. "Or get lost."

I glared at him and Dwalin joined into Dáin's laughter.

"I'd go and get your ' _amad_ if I were you.

\- You go and get your _'amad_ yourself", I spat out, my fists clenched and my body tense with repressed anger and wounded pride.

"Heard that, Dwalin?"

Dáin stood up and stretched his arms above his head, which made him only look taller.

"I think that cousin of yours just tried to insult you.

\- I think so too..."

I shot a deadly look at Dwalin, not understanding how he could be like this. Mocking me, pushing me away, ridiculing me. So unlike his brother – rough, coarse, and unfeeling.

"And I think that deserves something."

Dáin made a step towards me and I did not stir, though I was afraid – he was so tall and strong, I had seen him wrestle before and dreaded his grip and his punches. He looked hard at me, as if to take me in, and suddenly he leaped, grabbing me around the shoulders, making me spin and pushing me towards Dwalin.

I lost my balance, only to fall into Dwalin's arms, who lifted me despite my struggling and kicking.

"Why so ungrateful, lad, I'm giving you a ride..."

He tossed me back to Dáin who grabbed me around the chest and knees. I was still far too high above the floor for my taste, and that is when I lost the last bit of restrain that was still left in me. I bent to reach the arm that was still wrapped around me and bit him hard.

He let go of me with a grunt of pain and I fell down to the floor. It nearly took my breath away, but I pulled myself up and punched Dáin in the waist, with all my might. He was still holding his arm and reacted instinctively, slapping me – and I thought it would make my head fall apart. I saw dazzling lights and fell on the stone floor, hitting it with my head, and for several moments I lost focus of what happened around me.

"Come on, Thorin, wake up. We were only teasing you. It was just a little game..."

The hand on my shoulder was rough, strong, unlike Dwalin's voice, hardly above a whisper.

"Dáin, I think he really hurt himself..."

I opened my eyes then and heard him breathe out his relief. I was feeling dizzy and my head hurt; I winced as my hand found my temple.

"Easy. It's alright."

Dwalin helped me to recover, his face as bloodless as mine. And tears finally came to my eyes. I pulled away from him, and got up – or at least tried to. I was staggering and he had to catch me and hold me for some seconds before the ground became again safe and even to me.

I felt one hot and silent tear run down my cheek and brushed it away, trying to blink back the others welling behind my eyes. And then I punched Dwalin in the chest, one time, a second time, and then with such rage and frenzy that I nearly lost my balance again.

"I hate you."

I had spoken between my gritted teeth and Dwalin – he did not hit back. One knock of him would have me sprawled again on the floor, but he never touched me.

"I hate you both", I whispered, my breath shallow and my head spinning, when I finally let go of him and took some steps backwards. I could feel the bruise on my temple throb and saw worry in Dwalin's eyes, when Dáin just stared at me, aghast.

"I'll never talk to you again. And if someone asks me if I have cousins, I will say no. I'll say they are dead."

I hurled the words at them like knives and then I turned, getting out of the hall as fast as my legs would carry me. I remember leaning a hand against the wall, the other pressed to my throbbing head, and I managed to walk the whole corridor and to climb the first stairs before I slumped on the ground. I forgot who helped me out, I simply remember Óin cleaning the graze on my temple.

"What happened, lad?", he asked quietly and I just said:

"I fell."

I never breathed a word to anyone about it, not even my mother, even though she tried to coax it out of me. And to Dáin and Dwalin I did not speak either – which was not hard, since both of them avoided me the best they could during the rest of their stay.

"A quiet little fellow you have got, Thráin", Fundin said when he took his leave, gently ruffling my hair. "I wish I could say the same."

My father frowned, slightly puzzled, and Dwalin cast an uncomfortable look on me, as I gazed back, my eyes bright and unforgiving.

Now I was wiser, and older, and saw they had meant no harm, that I had been wild and passionate and had not understood it was their way to take me in.

And I was nervous. I wanted to show them I had grown up, that I was not a small, untamed Dwarfling anymore but that I had become capable and strong. That I could be relied upon, and respected.

But when finally we heard them approach – they could not be unheard, hundreds of heavy feet marching, their voices loud as they sang – and watched them come in a long, happy procession towards Erebor, I only felt anxious.

Dís hoisted herself up on my hip for a better look on them, and I envied her. She did not have to prove anything – they had never seen her, and would love her the moment they would cast their eyes on her.

The Dwarves on the ramparts cheered and those below answered, I could see them better now. Two Dwarves leading the whole troop, Fundin and Náin beyond doubt, but I could not say which one was who. Their wives following, dressed up in travelling clothes, and the rest of their strongest warriors. Including their sons.

Frerin cheered too, his face bright and happy, and I could feel Dís move as she waved – too small to be seen, yet eager to greet them. She turned to look at me, probably wondering why I was not saying a word, why I was not moving.

I was still clutching the wall, trying to find out where they were, Dáin and Dwalin, and to think of what I should say to greet them – what were the proper words, when you met again with someone you had sworn to hate in a moment of passion...?

Surely they had talked about this between them, during all these years, surely they were awaiting the moment were I would speak to them, and then, what would they say...? What if they ridiculed me, in front of all the Dwarves, in front of my grandfather...?

Dís moved again, putting her arms around me and lifting her blue eyes towards my face.

"You are cold..."

I exhaled painfully – I had forgotten to breathe for a moment. Dís nestled even closer to me and pressed a quiet little kiss on my neck. My shirt felt sticky on my back, damp with cold sweat, and I gently put her down on the floor.

"Come. Let's welcome them."

My voice was steady and calm, as I took her hand to lead her down the stairs. Frerin had already preceded us, I could see him running down, the brilliant red of his shirt detaching itself among the other Dwarves' garments.

We both had dressed with care, and bore our swords. I could feel mine bouncing slightly against my leg, and felt like a stranger in my own skin. My dark blue tunic, the leather jerkin with the complicated pattern, and my belt with the silver engravings I was so proud of, it looked suddenly like a costume to me.

 _I am ridiculous. They will just laugh at me._

The thought kept coming up, making my grip tighten around Dís' fingers, making my breath choke again.

And suddenly we were there, at the gate. Exactly as it was proper, standing next to my father, me, Frerin and Dís, Thráin's children ready to welcome their cousins.

My grandfather came forth himself, beaming, his heavy robes swirling around him as he embraced his nephew.

"You are very welcome, Náin, son of my brother. And so are you, Fundin, son of my cousin. We were all waiting for you."

They bowed before him and embraced him, and then my father stepped forward. I saw that he was smiling, noticed the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes with surprise as he fell into the arms of his cousin.

"Thráin!"

Náin's laughter was warm, bellowing – I watched them embrace and hold each other for a long time, their foreheads pressed together.

"These must be the lads..."

Náin had turned to us, beaming – I remembered the strong accent of his speech that spoke of rough days in hot, iron mines...

"Durin's beard, they're not lads anymore, are they?"

He had a red, carefully woven beard and not a single white hair in his fiery mane. He was tall, nearly as tall as my father, and there were tattoos on his brow and his strong arms – I saw them when he embraced me, nearly crushing me against his broad chest.

"Grown fine and tall, right? Bless you!"

He smiled again, I was still feeling uncomfortable but his easy-going way had taken some of my anxiety away, so that I felt able to smile and speak the proper words.

"Bless you, uncle, for arriving safely. You are very welcome."

He squeezed my forearms in an affectionate gesture that almost made me wince, and turned to my brother.

"By my beard, laddie, I can't believe my eyes. Last time I saw you, we had to pour some ale in your milk so as to get at least _one_ undisturbed evening, you were screaming so loud...

\- I'm not screaming anymore, uncle. But I'm still fond of a drink..."

Náin laughed at Frerin's bold answer, and hugged him again. And then he turned to Dís, crouching down on the floor so as to be on the same high as her – his move strangely gracious for one so strong and massive.

"And what would be your name, precious? I am your uncle Náin, and crossed hills and rivers to see you, for they have told me Erebor's princess is as sweet and pretty as a dove.

\- My name is Dís", my little sister answered gravely, her blue eyes looked in Náin's kind brown eyes. "But I don't know the princess you are talking about. Thorin never told me about her..."

She was watching him with a doubtful expression and Náin bent down to kiss her, drawing her close to him for a moment.

"No, I bet he did not..."

He looked at me then, his gaze warm and somewhat sad, and got up.

"Where's my lad? Dáin!"

I had barely the time to brace myself, having had to greet Fundin first – a light-haired, slightly shorter Dwarf whose kind smile I instantly recognized, for it was the same as Balin's.

Then I stood finally in front of my cousin.

He was a small portrait of his father – the same red, luxurious hair, even though his beard was still mere stubble; the same bright, brown eyes; the same strong, bulky frame – but he had no tattoos, of course, he was far too young.

He eyed me for some seconds, taking me in, and I realized with surprise that I was slightly _taller_ than him, although I was by no means as stocky. He did not look _so_ much older than me, but I could see clearly that he was as uncomfortable as I was.

 _He remembers_.

"Welcome back in Erebor, Dáin."

My voice was slightly hoarse but at least, I managed not to stutter. He nodded, still not saying a word, and I felt my cheeks getting hot.

"I hope you had a good journey..."

By that time my voice had dropped to a whisper – I could not bring myself to say more, I could not move and embrace him. Thankfully Frerin saved me.

"Cousin! I could not wait to meet you!"

Dáin smiled and opened his arms, and Frerin and him embraced, before my brother started prattling away.

"You must tell me everything about the Iron Hills, and about your journey, I am so curious! Is it very different than here? Is it a long way from Erebor?"

Dáin laughed, a bit taken aback by his chatter but clearly pleased.

"Sure, lad, a long way from that Mighty Mountain of yours! And I'll tell you all about it once we'll sit down around a good pint – heard you're fond of it, right?

\- You bet!"

Dáin boxed Frerin in the shoulder – how could it be so easy between them, what was it that Frerin had in him? And then he cast a playful gaze in my direction.

"Tell me, Frerin. That brother of yours, is he always so stiff or can some pints make it somewhat better?"

I felt all my body tense and Frerin's laughter made it even worse.

"Thorin? I'm not sure he ever got drunk... He hates to make a fool of himself, don't you, Thorin?"

His laughter faded a little when he saw my face, and he took great care not to look at me anymore, pulling Dáin by the sleeve.

"Come. Let's get inside, you must be tired and hungry."

Dáin followed, but when he passed me he gave me a gentle shove, with a broad smile. I had not moved, and heard Dáin and Frerin chuckle as they left the threshold to enter the Mountain – it made me want to sink into the earth, never to get out again.

"Thorin?"

The well-known voice of Balin raised me from my thoughts and I looked up at him, to find him smiling at me, his arm around a very tall young Dwarf whose features I recalled so clearly. He was tall, strong, his brown hair tied back with one heavy silvery clasp, his eyebrows bushy and his gaze both fierce and shy.

"You remember Dwalin, maybe? Big lad, always bothering everyone, driving old Balin mad?"

He beamed even more when Dwalin grunted and drew him closer to him.

"Yet I missed him so much. I am so happy that you finally get to meet again, I am sure you will have so many things to tell each other."

He smiled at us, squeezed Dwalin's arm and left, to join his father and mother again. And we were left alone.

"You are very welcome."

I had become weary of that sentence, of these shallow words, of the stupid role of the host I was supposed to play when all I wanted was to be left alone. But I tried to put some conviction in my words.

"I hope you know that."

Dwalin grunted again and I felt despair creeping into my heart – could he not talk, even a small down-to-earth sentence would do...

"We all really love Balin, you know."

The tiny voice next to me both startled us and I saw Dwalin's eyes soften when they fell on Dís.

"He tells very good stories. About fairies and moonlight, about the stars. One evening he took us out, Frerin and Thorin and me, and we watched the sky together and he told us about the story of the Great Bear. Do you know that one?

\- Yes I do. It is one of my favourites."

The smile in Dwalin's eyes softened everything in his face. He put one knee on the ground and Dís simply stepped up to him and hugged him. It was something she never did on her own, and it made my heart sting with unexpected jealousy.

"You must have missed him so much", she said quietly, her arms still around him, and I saw Dwalin blink, both confused and moved.

"I would be very, very sad to be away from my brothers. Especially Thorin, because..."

And then that wicked little thing bent down to whisper something in his ear. Something that made Dwalin's half-smile become whole, and the jealous biting in my heart even worse.

Dís broke free from Dwalin and smiled at me, ready to take my hand, but I just shook my head.

"You go and greet the rest of Balin's family. _Now_."

Dís pouted and tried to take my hand in spite of me, but I pulled my fingers free, my gaze cold and stern.

"Go, Dís. I'll not say it again."

She went then, a tiny, graceful figure with long raven-black hair, and I watched her join Balin and put her hand in his, waiting for him to introduce her, her face grave and quiet.

"You have not changed, have you?"

Dwalin's question came low, without aggression, yet I tensed and looked at him, my eyes dark and my voice icy.

"What do you mean?"

He sighed and had again his strange, soft half-smile.

"It still unsettles you, what people might or might not say about you. Makes you seeing offence where there's no harm meant."

I clenched my fists and swallowed, hard – I wanted to feel angry but suddenly I just felt sad, lonely, and at a loss for words.

"I am happy to see you again, Thorin."

I looked up at him then, and saw the same concern and kindness that I had witnessed in him years before, after that terrible encounter.

"Listen, Dwalin... About – about what I said... and did... Last time we met, I..."

He put a hand on my forearm then. It was warm, reassuring, and it silenced me as efficiently as any words.

"We were all young and silly. Especially us. Of course you were right to be mad at us, even though I confess I would not want to cross you again."

He smiled and I found myself smiling back, immensely relieved.

"And since that adorable sister of yours has just confessed that you are her favourite brother – it is a secret, though, and I am not to tell you why she likes you best – I reckon you turned out alright."

I laughed then, softly, feeling the tension inside of me ebb and disappear.

"That's what Dís told you?"

He nodded and I finally pulled him into a real, sincere embrace.

"I am really glad you came, Dwalin."

He smiled, and when Dís came back he watched me taking her up in my arms, drawing her close to me and pressing a fond kiss on her forehead.

"You told him...", she whispered to Dwalin, her blue eyes full of reproach.

"Hardly anything, sweetheart..."

She shook her head and I laughed, silently at first, and then freely when I saw Dwalin's amused gaze.

"Guess I should not cross her either..."

I pressed another kiss into Dís' hair, still laughing, and then I took Dwalin's arm.

"Come on. Let's go inside. It will be a great feast, and a very long night."

We went inside, then, and I was not worried about Dáin anymore, or about what had happened between us. I could not remember the last time I had felt so truly light and cheerful – maybe because everyone was happy around me and I knew my father was happy too, maybe also because of Dís, and her unique and simple love.

But most of all, I think it was because for the first time of my life, I had begun to feel what a great and glorious thing it was to have a friend.


	6. Chapter 6

**The King of Carven Stone : Part II**

 **Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)**

 **6.**

Friendship. Sharing what you love. Voicing your most intimate thoughts, knowing you will not be laughed at. Getting access to other thoughts, other feelings, and knowing you are not alone.

There are so many ways to trust and to open your heart. Who says only real love makes you feel a life's worth living? For me friendship deserves just as much prize. For a true friend will always be at your side, no matter how low you are. Won't look for the shiny, polished side of yours – knows some of your blackest thoughts and won't judge you for them, or for the mistakes you make.

I have been blessed in my friendships, I know that. There are few I can call my friends, but those who found their way to my heart I hold as dear as my own blood.

And Dwalin is one among them.

Mahal knows I do not deserve him, but he never let me down. Never ever, when he was able to do something good for me, has he left my side, and he never failed me, not even in my blackest days. Not even the three times I failed him, in those doomed places where I lost everything.

Azanulbizar.

Here, in the very walls of Erebor, drowning in piles of gold, my mind consumed by the vain promises of the cursed White Gem.

And today, in the icy tower of Ravenhill – I do not know what became of Dwalin after I looked at the Pale Orc, after my heart was ripped open when I saw Fíli fall... There were so many of them, and surely he must be dead too, my friend with the fierce brown eyes and the strong, broad axe...

My breath is wheezing, I feel the taste of blood in my mouth and I close my eyes briefly. I am dying, I know I am, but it is taking so long and I am tired – thinking hurts, and the memories will not stop, images passing before my eyes like falling stars.

When I open my eyes I see the dying light of the sun – a few seconds have passed at the utmost since I fell and I can hardly believe that I have been racing through years and long-forgotten days in a few eye-blinks... I remember another sunset, near Erebor, another time where I have felt the hot, metallic taste of blood on my lips.

A day where I did not fail.

My cousins had stayed for a week now, and I had got used to their loud and cheerful presence, to the point where I wondered how we had managed without them before.

I had taken them to Dale, had introduced them to the Men I used to meet, and they had looked at the beautiful City in wonder – there were no such houses, archways, and places close to the Iron Hills. They had seen the market, the carousel and the harbour, and were still talking about it for days afterwards.

But they also went down to the forge with me and it was my turn to watch in silent respect, for both were skilled. They were not used to the precious metals and gems we used here in Erebor, but they learned quickly. And the weapons they made were both light and solid – they knew iron as I knew silver, and my teachers praised their work.

"This is beautiful..."

Dwalin had picked up a silver bracelet and was looking at the delicate carving upon it – flower blossoms and leaves, I had spent hours trying to fix them upon the shiny metal.

"You really think so?"

I had blushed slightly; I was still not used to being with him and not being pushed away. He looked at me, his brown eyes mocking me gently.

"No. I just wasted my breath and lied."

He rolled his eyes.

"Of course I think so. It's not easy, carving such a tiny pattern. And they really look like flowers."

He grinned and I smiled back, holding out my hand to get the bracelet back.

"You made it for your sweetheart, right?"

I choked and turned to crimson.

"I don't... I'm not in love with anyone here."

He laughed, quietly, pushing me affectionately in the chest, and I put the bracelet away, shaking my head.

"Are you?", I whispered, curious to know if there really was such a soft side in him – and if there was, what it was like to love...

"'Course not", Dwalin grinned. "Would not know what to do with her, right? Talking and holding hands, do you fancy me doing that?!"

I truly did not, and the thought made me laugh so hard that the elder Dwarves waved us out of the forge, exasperated, calling us a nuisance – which only made us laugh more.

But that evening, we heard of tidings that made us become serious and listen eagerly. There had been rumours about bands of Orcs that had been spotted, ten miles away from Erebor, and the night before they had become so bold as to attack a village.

Though it was a village of Men, it was on Dwarven lands, and Thrór's reaction was swift. We would hunt them down, and kill them all – and by 'we' he meant my father and his warriors, who were to set out at dawn's break. Fundin and Náin asked to accompany them and were granted the request.

But when Dáin asked to come too, the roaring laughter of the other Dwarves was as good as the firmest of 'no', and for the first time since the beginning of his stay, I saw my cousin sulk.

"Never mind all these old farts...", he grumbled, as we were going up to our rooms with Dwalin.

Frerin had gone to bed earlier, he was tired from all the late evenings we had spent together – after all he still was young, and that day his eyelids had become heavy and heavier, despite the exciting talking about Orcs.

Dáin stopped at the top of the staircase and looked at both Dwalin and me, his brow creased and his gaze intent.

"I say we grab our weapons and follow them. See if we can help them with that filthy band of Orcs."

I looked at him, unsure, and then at Dwalin, whose face had brightened with excitement.

"We are too young. We can't."

Dáin snorted contemptuously.

"You might be too young. I'm not, and neither is Dwalin."

I clenched my fists, pride and anger getting the better of me – as usual.

"If you go, I go too. I know the lands better than you do, and I know where they will be going."

I gazed at him, my eyes a challenge, and he smiled then – for I was giving him exactly what he wanted.

"I knew you could be relied upon."

He grabbed my arm and I shook him off, both pleased and uneasy. And then we went down, quietly, to the armoury where we used to keep our weapons between our training sessions. No one was there – they were still busy discussing their plans, and we took our chainmail, our axes, our swords and our shields.

"You think we need those?"

Dwalin pointed to the helmets, and I shook my head – I did not like to fight in them, it made me feel as if I was locked in, making my vision shrink and lessening my hearing.

"No. They are too heavy – and we won't let them come as close."

We went back to our rooms, then, and I stayed awake the main part of the night, too excited to sleep. A part of me couldn't wait to taste battle, to see what it was like to fight for real – and the other hoped fervently that Dáin and Dwalin would sleep in, and forget about that hotheaded scheme.

When I saw the moon turn pale, I rose from the windowsill where I had sat and started to dress – I had given my word, after all, and would not let them say I was a coward. I put on breeches and the heavy, thick tunic I used to wear for trainings, and then I pulled on my chainmail, my leather jerkin, fastened my belt and put on my boots. I was just fastening my arm-guards when I heard the knock at my door.

"Come in..." – I whispered, and there they stood, my cousins, already dressed in full battle gear.

Dáin handed me axe and sword with a grin, and I smiled back.

"Let's not make a noise. We have to get out before them, and then we'll just have to follow. _Quietly_."

I looked hard at him, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"'Course. What do you think I am, a brainless oliphaunt?"

I shook my head – making a mental note to ask Balin what in Durin's name an _oliphaunt_ was – and then we just sneaked out of Erebor, through the kitchen door, like thieves. We hid in the nearby rocks, and then we waited.

And with the first rays of the sun, we saw them depart – my father and his company, thirty strong, quiet, and well-trained Dwarves, who lost no time and started marching east in a swift, easy pace.

"We stick to the rocks" – I whispered. "We let them go ahead of us, until the last of them can't hear us, and then we follow."

They nodded – they had become quiet, all of a sudden, and I wondered if they could not be persuaded to go back, after all.

"Right", Dáin whispered then, shattering my hopes. "Off we go."

Dwalin nodded again, and I sighed inwardly, and started leading them, carefully, across rock and stone. Sweat soon bathed my forehead, for my weapons and clothes were heavy, and I had to be careful not to make a sound.

But we followed, quietly, our eyes fixed on the small, grim company that was marching through the mountains, to reach the valley where the village had been attacked, and the pass where the Orc band was said to be hiding, ready for another raid.

Noon was long behind us when I saw the company halt, and I held out my hand to make Dwalin and Dáin stop behind me.

"They will send two of them scouting, seeing where the Orcs are and how many they are", I breathed, my voice not above a whisper. "And then they'll decide how they will attack."

I turned to them, and saw respect in their eyes – it did not please me, though, because I was the youngest, I was not supposed to lead, it was _their_ scheme, I had just followed.

"And how will they attack?"

Dáin had asked almost shyly, and I shook my head.

"I have no idea... Did you not say you had already seen many Orc fights, around the Iron Hills?!

\- Well..." – he cleared his voice and looked awkward, and I felt my heart sink, seeing that Dwalin seemed hardly more comfortable.

"You have not been to _any_ fight, right?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes, and then I clenched my fists and pressed my body against the rocks again, determined at least to _look_ brave.

"Well then I suppose we wait, and then, when the scouts come back, we follow, and we cover their backs."

They both nodded, their eyes fixed on me, and I uttered a silent prayer to Mahal that we would not need to cover anything – my father and his Dwarves were strong, after all, and I had some hope we would only have to watch.

The scouts came back quickly, and though I tried to catch what they were whispering, I could not make out what my father's plan would be. Soon, I saw his company split – they were climbing the high rocks circling the pass, and we soon were left alone, our hurried breathing being the only sound between the high, cold rocks.

"And now... Should we follow?"

Dwalin's voice was unsure, and I shook my head.

"No. We'd be exposed. We just stay here and wait."

The shrieking and screaming started minutes after. Suddenly we heard a terrible noise, echoing through the high stones – Dwarven battle cries, the Khuzdûl words loud and clear; and Orc screeches and curses, as well as the clanging of weapons.

I stood there, my body rigid and drenched in cold sweat, not daring to move, thinking that my father was out there, facing... Facing...

"I'm going there!", Dáin said, and he left the rocks, shouldering his axe, his face pale but determined.

"Don't move!"

I had wanted to scream, but only managed to whisper, because I had caught sight of what was storming right towards us – Orcs trying to flee and escape the wrath of Dwarves, running out of the pass and coming to a halt when they saw Dáin.

They let out a scream then, and my heart leaped when I saw my cousin tighten his grip around his axe, looking terribly small and tiny, facing those God-forsaken beasts.

"Just come and try to get me!", he let out, in a shaky voice, and when the first Orc hurled itself at him, he struck it in the belly, making it hit the ground with a squeal.

I stopped thinking then, and so did Dwalin. We just ran to Dáin's aid, leaving shelter for battle, and I remember the clanging of my sword against Orc's daggers, the stench of their blood as it soaked my jerkin, and always, always the hard and faithful shoulders of my cousin, because we fought close to each other, never leaving each other's side.

It was a never ending nightmare, because the more we struck down the more they seemed to be – my father's Dwarves causing them to run for their lives.

Mahal, their faces... Yellowed teeth, swollen features full of hatred, even their blood was black and foul... I guess we only managed to strike them down because my father's company had already weakened and hurt them, but to us they were a mighty foe, very different from the masters who had taught us how to fight...

Dáin let out a scream and I saw one of the Orcs draw back its dagger with a devilish smile, eyeing the wound in Dáin's arm with shiny, yellow eyes. He let go of his shield, his legs shaky and his face pale and sweaty, and Dwalin jumped in front of him, sliding his knife in the Orc's throat with a grim face.

"It'll teach you to draw Dwarf blood..."

He smiled at me as I just pushed another Orc away, my sword thrust deep into its belly, and it was then I saw it.

A terrible beast, taller than the biggest dog and fierce as a wolf. It had managed to climb the rocks above us, not caring that under its heavy claws, stones were thrown on Orcs, striking them down.

"Dwalin!"

My scream echoed between the stones, and he just had the time to look up and stare wide-eyed to the Warg before it hurled itself on him, baring its fangs.

I don't remember the next seconds, I just remember the maddening fear that pulsed through my body, quicker and hotter that blood. But I recall the foul stench of the beast's breathing, as I hurled myself at it, striking it with both sword and axe.

I was screaming too, doing everything to turn the beast from Dwalin, and I struck and hit and drew blood from its flanks, making it howl. It let go of Dwalin and took some steps back, its flanks quivering, and then it leapt again. Reaching for my body this time.

I watched its jump – it seemed to take ages, and my body tensed, ready for the terrible impact and the searing pain of claws digging in my flesh. And they came swiftly enough – the Warg's paws pinning me to the ground, taking my breath away.

I clenched my fingers round my sword, and suddenly wondered where my axe was, for my left hand was bare and motionless. And it was then I saw the beast sway and fall to the side inside of tearing me to pieces. It was then I saw my axe, embedded deep down in its skull, and realized I must have thrown it right before it jumped.

I got to my feet, my legs shaking and my breath still short, and realized we were not facing the beasts alone anymore. My father's company had come to our aid, and were just finishing the Orcs off – it was a matter of minutes before they all lay down on the ground, dead and not able to harm anymore.

Dwalin had got up too, one hand pressed against his chest, his face deadly pale as he eyed the Warg I had struck down. And Dáin was still on his knees, trying to staunch the wound in his arm.

His father had run to him and I saw Balin and Fundin walk up to Dwalin, their faces grey and aghast.

All the Dwarves were gathering around us now, and I watched my father as he made his way towards me, his face grim and hard. For some moments he just stared at me, as if he didn't recognize me, as if he had forgotten how to speak.

And then he struck me in the face, and the silver ring on his finger cut my lip open. He grabbed me by the shoulders as I staggered and shook me, pinning me against the rocks as if I had weighed nothing, and the back of my head hit it painfully with every word he uttered.

"What – do you think – you were doing?!"

His voice was low, but there was a fire in his eyes that frightened me – Thráin had been cold and indifferent for so many years now, and I had never faced his anger or any other of his feelings for ages...

"You thought this was a game?!"

He slammed me against the rock again and my breath choked, but I did not resist him – he was my father, I could not fight him, I was not supposed to fight him. Yet when he reached out to me again, I tried to raise a hand to protect my face, and it infuriated him even more. He let go of my shoulder and grabbed my wrist, twisting it painfully.

"If I had known you would be such a fool, putting yourself at risk like that, I would have broken your bones long ago."

He glared at me, his grey eye shining, his face pale with anger. He was still pinning me against the stone with one hand and I – I could just look at him, my eyes wide with fear and pain.

"What would your mother say?!"

He hissed that sentence like a curse, letting go of my wrist, and I don't know which pain was greater, the one unleashed in my hand or the one in his words.

"She's dead." – the words came out of my mouth with blood, and I raised a shaky hand to wipe my lips.

"She's dead. How could she care?!"

He took a step back then, his face as white as mine – I was breathing fast, still covered with black Orc blood, every inch of my body hurting, but it was nothing compared to the pain I felt inside.

And I did not defend myself when he struck me again, hitting my jaw, making my head slam again against the rock.

"Thráin!"

My father let out a deep breath when Fundin grabbed his arm, pulling him away from me. And I just let myself slide on the ground, slowly. I was shaking now, with the aftermath of the battle and what had just happened between us, and I raised my knees and pressed my face upon them, trying to control my breathing once more.

I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and when I lifted my head Fundin was looking at me, his eyes full of sorrow. He gently brushed my cheekbone, and I turned my face from him – pain and pride making his touch unbearable.

"Thank you for saving my boy."

He whispered those words as he pulled me up, handing me back my sword and my shield. My axe was still stuck deep in the beast's skull, and I shuddered at the mere thought of pulling it free.

The other Dwarves had already gathered – the Orcs were defeated, left on the field to rot, just like their beasts. Náin had Dáin close to him, his grip on his arm strong as iron, and Balin and Dwalin were standing side by side, their faces both white as the clouds above us.

"I suppose you would just walk away, right?"

The icy voice of my father stopped me dead, as I was walking up to them with heavy, tired steps.

"We do not leave our weapons like that, for anyone to steal."

I looked up at him, almost beseechingly, but this was not a day where Thráin could be softened.

"I hoped I had at least taught you that."

The contempt in his words gave me the strength to move, and walk back to the Warg I had struck down, slowly. The beast's scent was foul, and my axe was inches deep in his skull, covered with a disgusting and sickening substance.

They all watched me approach it, and I felt sweat cover my palms as I clutched my axe once more and tried to pull. It did not stir, and as I pulled again I felt my stomach heave. I let go of the axe for a moment, praying Mahal and all the Gods not to be sick – not today, not before anyone here. And I managed to fight my nausea back, closing my eyes, grabbing the axe and putting my foot as a counterweight on the beast's head.

I pulled – with a sudden, terrible rage against my father who understood nothing, who knew nothing about me and most of all, who did not _care_ – and the axe broke free with a sickening sound.

I turned from the beast then, my face grey and my fingers clammy and rigid around the axe. I pulled at the hem of my shirt, ripped it, with a quick, angry move, and cleaned the blade, carefully, slowly, as if nothing else on earth mattered.

And then I faced them all, my teeth gritted and my eyes shining. I put my sword back in my belt, grabbed my shield with my left arm and shouldered my axe.

 _Just dare to utter one word_.

My whole body was screaming out the challenge, and they all understood it. They turned away, silently, some of them with a slight bow of their head, and my father let his cold gaze hang down on me for what seemed an age, before he eventually turned his back on me and started walking home.

I let out a few shaky breaths, embracing the battlefield once more, the crimson rays of the sun, like blood on the mountains, and the dark piles of the corpses below.

And then I walked away myself – the last of our company, my arms hurting and heavy with weapons I had imagined I could wield. Something hot fell on my lips and I thought it was blood, but then I tasted salt and realized I was crying.

No one turned, no one said a word to me, no one heard and no one saw. I had not wept since my mother's death, since that terrible night where Frerin had laid against me and where I had tried to keep my grief from him.

But that day – when I should have felt proud and excited, after all it was my first shot and I was barely twenty, still almost a child for a Dwarf – that day my tears ran freely down my cheeks, clearing dust and blood away. Silent sobs shook me, and I did not repress them, because it hardly mattered.

Nobody cared – no one cared.

And so I walked far behind the company, my eyes blinded by soundless tears. I wept for my mother, for my father who had died away with her, and for the terrible fear I had felt, seeing the beast jump on Dwalin, baring its claws. I wept for my own foolishness, for my shattered dreams of glory, for the terrible loneliness I felt in my heart, for the throbbing pain Thráin's blow had left in my jaw, and for Fundin's kindness I did not deserve.

And when I had no more tears I looked up, and saw we were almost at the walls of Erebor, and that night was closing in. I put my shield down and wiped my face, catching up with the company, determined to hide away my pain.

Since no one cared.

We passed the gates and the guards cheered first, and then gazed at us with surprise, taking in my battered face, the wound in Dáin's arm and Dwalin's bruised body.

"You just come with me."

My father had spoken between his gritted teeth, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me towards the staircase leading to our rooms. I was struggling to keep on my feet back then, and when he pushed me in my own room I just stood there, my arms heavy as lead, my fingers loose around my axe and shield.

He snatched them from me, tossed them on the ground, and then he stripped me from my belt, my sword, my chainmail and my jerkin, with deft and angry moves.

Until I stood in shirt and breeches before him, my face grey and my eyes empty. He grabbed me by the shoulders then, and searched my whole body with his hands – feeling for my arms, my chest, my back, my stomach, even my legs, and I just let him.

"I have no more weapons, _'adad_."

I had spoken in a low voice; I was feeling so tired and cold then I had given up all my pride, and I was swaying between his hands. His eye widened then and he looked hard at me.

"So you think that is what I am looking for? Weapons?!

\- I don't know, _'adad_. I am..."

He caught me around the waist as my legs gave way and held me against him, with the same force he had used to pin me against the rock.

"Mahal knows what might be going on in your head...", he sighed, drawing in a painful breath, and then he let himself down on the ground, still holding me close.

"I was looking for injuries, Thorin. Those Orcs could have killed you, I could have seen you torn between the fangs of their beasts, and then how could I live on, tell me?"

He pressed a kiss on my head – he who had hit me hours ago – and then he just held me, his arms around me and his eyes closed. I wept again then, my face pressed into his chest, and this time it was loud and heartbreaking, for I wept like a child.

And he did not ask me to act like a warrior and to stop. He rocked me and he kissed me, and every once in a while he ran a hand through my hair and whispered:

"You foolish boy. You foolish, stupid, beloved boy of mine."

It was long before my tears finally stopped, and by then I was utterly done for. I had closed my eyes, my face still pressed in my father's chest, and tried to resist when he pulled slightly back to take a look at me, pushing back one of my locks.

"I have hurt you."

My father's voice was sad, and I opened my eyes, shaking my head.

"I deserved it. I am sorry, _'adad_."

My voice was hoarse and broken, and I felt a familiar fear tighten my chest. I could not let him find his way back to brooding thoughts; he was not to lock himself again in grief and sadness.

"I should never have said such things. I should never have disobeyed you. I promise I will never disappoint you again.

\- Disappoint...?"

Thráin repeated the word in a whisper, shaking his head, and I felt my fear grow – I took his hand between mine and held it against my heart, my throat too tight to speak.

"You never disappointed me, Thorin. Not even today, I am afraid to say." – he smiled briefly at me at these words, before adding softly: "I fear I am the one who let you down."

I shook my head and drew my arms around him, realizing only then he was still wearing his full battle-gear. He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and then he said:

"Nonetheless, Thorin, I cannot let things stand as they are. If I allow you to sit at tonight's banquet, where everyone is going to praise you to the moon – as you well know they will – Mahal only knows what silly thoughts might grow in your brother's head.

\- They won't praise me. They think I'm a nobody."

He laughed then, freely, for the first time in years.

"You? A nobody?! I'd like to see a nobody doing what you achieved today... Wait until your grandfather hears of it..."

He shook his head, becoming serious again.

"But I won't let you witness that. I don't want you to wield axe, sword or shield in any other way than in training, at least for five more years, do you understand me? You are too young, and you don't know the wild yet – even though I know you think otherwise."

He eyed me sternly, and then he gently broke away from my embrace.

"Take a bath. Rinse that filthy blood of them away, and try to get some rest. I don't want to part from you tonight, but for yours and Frerin's sake I must be firm. You are not to get to the banquet, and not to leave this room until tomorrow."

I nodded, tiredly. I knew he was right, and besides I did not want to talk to anyone right now – too much emotions, too many thoughts and feelings in my mind.

He left me, then, and I bathed, feeling my bruised and exhausted body relax in the hot water. I washed my hair carefully, rinsing away the smell of Orc blood, and then I put on a clean shirt and breeches and stretched myself on my bed, barefoot, my hair still damp and unbraided. I could hear sounds of the ongoing feast below and realized then how hungry I was, but the mere thought of getting up and asking for some food was too much – I closed my eyes and fell asleep almost at once.

A soft touch on my cheek woke me up after what seemed only minutes to me – but when I looked around me it was dark and late, and the bellowing laughter I could hear even through the thick walls bore clear proof that the feast must have been going on for long.

"Are you ill?"

Dís was kneeling on my bed at my side and I winced when she brushed my cheekbone. She had a worried look on her small face that made her look older, and I sat up to take her in my arms.

"No. I just fell asleep.

\- Dwalin said you have been very brave today, he said you have saved his life."

I looked up and saw him standing close to my bed then, awkwardly, not knowing where to look. He cleared his voice and said, briskly:

"We both thought you might be hungry."

My eyes brightened when I saw what he had brought with him: hot bread, cheese, salted meat and some small, tasty fruitcakes that were among my favourite treats.

"Bless you...", I whispered, jumping out of the bed.

I hugged him, briefly, and he hugged me back, almost squeezing me against his broad chest.

"Thank you...", he said, and I just shook my head.

"No. Thank _you_."

I beamed and took a big mouthful of bread, and for some minutes I was too busy eating and chewing to talk.

"I could have starved to death in here...", I finally uttered, with a delighted sigh, before I put again some cheese in my mouth.

"We would not have let you."

Dwalin grinned at me, and then he took one of the fruitcakes and stuffed it in his mouth, just like this.

It was then the door opened and I saw Frerin peep inside, and then get in with confident and angry steps, closely followed by Dáin.

"Well, this is _so_ like you. Typical. I was literally _dying_ with worry – and anger too, what were you thinking, going there without me?! – knowing you were all alone up there, without food or company, and here I find you, quite contented, eating your fill! You don't deserve me, Thorin, you know that?!"

He slammed what he was carrying on the table with an angry move – dear, faithful Frerin, how he managed to snatch away an entire mince pie, and fried sausages, and a loaf of hot bread I do not know – and got the more angrier when we started to laugh, Dwalin and me.

"I think we should just leave them, Dáin."

But Dáin was laughing too, adding to Frerin's pile of food a bottle of cider and two jugs of ale. I rose to my feet and hugged my brother, taking in the bandages around my cousin's arm, and knowing he would not want me to say a word about them.

"You are right. I just don't deserve you."

Frerin's anger deflated as quickly as it had risen and he squeezed my arm, briefly.

"Well. Since it appears you are quite the hero, I'll try to be noble and forget about it. Let's eat. I'm hungry."

Dwalin stared at him in disbelief.

"You have done nothing but eating for the past five hours!

\- I know", Frerin said quietly. "Still. This pie is a straight way to heaven, believe me.

\- And so is the ale...", Dáin grinned.

So we all ended up on the floor, sitting on the carpet in my room with all the candles on, food and drinks at everyone's reach, and Dáin and Dwalin were just telling Frerin for the twentieth time how the Warg had appeared right before us and how I struck him down when the handle of my door moved again.

"Oh. I am sorry to interrupt."

Balin's face was grave but his eyes were warm and smiling, as always. He carried a basket full of fruits, and warmth spread in my chest when I realized it was mostly peaches and cherries, my favourites. I rose to my feet as he laid the basket on the floor, carefully, and threw myself in his arms.

"Oh lad...", Balin sighed, holding me close. "The three of you, you'll definitely be the death of me...

\- The _three_?!", Frerin asked indignantly, and Balin let out a watery laugh, quickly brushing his eyes, letting go of me.

"Pardon me. The _four_ of you, of course, and you first of all."

He sat down with us, after that, and we made a hearty banquet of all the supplies they had gathered. I was soon full but went on eating small bites of cake or fruit, listening to the stories Balin had begun to tell at Dís' request – she was bored by our battle talk, and to be honest, so was I.

I was holding her in my lap, grateful to be alive and happy – the bruise on my cheekbone reminding me clearly that I had almost lost all this. She fell asleep soon but I did not put her down, and we sat there, my friends and I – my kin and I – until dawn, talking, laughing and eating. Grateful to be alive and together still.

It was my first battle banquet, and definitely one of my best. That day I struck my first blow, and saved my friend, and yet decided I did not want to grow up too fast.

And right I was. Right I was.


	7. Chapter 7

A sad and grey morning it seemed to us, despite the bright and golden sunlight, when my cousins had to part from us to get back to their own halls, and my heart was heavy as I watched them go, standing once more on the ramparts.

So many things had passed, during those few weeks...

This time Dís was in Balin's arms – she knew how sad he was, and actually Frerin and I were standing on each side of him, leaning our head on his shoulder in mute support.

We watched Náin and Fundin's families and guards leave Erebor, singing as always – a homage to us who had received them, and a prayer for a safe and swift travel. And this time I raised my hand and waved, and saw Dwalin and Dáin wave back, hitting their chest and stretching their arm high in the morning sun.

"You take care, Thorin!"

I recognized Dwalin's rough voice and smiled, bending over the ramparts.

"You watch your back, Dwalin!

\- Always!", he shouted back, and then he laughed and turned – my tall, strong, warm-hearted friend I would miss so much.

And we watched them go, until the last of them disappeared behind the Hills. Balin sighed and Dís nestled even closer to him.

"If you want, I'll ask _'adad_ if you can go and visit them soon.

\- No, dearest. My place is here."

Balin had replied softly, running his fingers through her raven hair, and then he put her on the ground, nodded to us and went down the stairs. Frerin frowned and made an attempt to follow him, but I held him back, gently.

"Let him be."

My brother hesitated, and then he came back, resting his chin on the edge of the ramparts, his grey eyes lost in the horizon, where the river stretched in a seemingly endless curve, like a golden arch on emerald valleys.

"I wish we could cheer him up..."

I put a hand on his back and rubbed it roughly with my knuckles, wanting him to smile because I was sad too, but Frerin just leaned against me and sighed, his breath lifting one of his braids – the picture of misery itself. I was about to tease him, but then I felt Dís pulling at my shirt, her eyes bright and her cheeks red.

"I know what could please Balin..."

She whispered her plan then, and though it was really nothing warrior-like or glorious, it was such an excellent idea that we both accepted at once – besides, it would keep us from gloomy thoughts.

We ran down the stairs, past my father and grandfather who raised a questioning brow but said nothing – my recent adventures with a certain Orc pack having given me _some_ licence, lately.

And then I made for my father's room, and tried to sound grave and commanding when I told the guard standing before his door:

"I have just come to get something."

He bowed, half-mockingly, and said:

"You know I'll have to go in with you nonetheless."

He accompanied me inside – I had _some_ licence, as I said, but not as much as to roam my father's room freely – and watch me reaching for a piece of furniture that was covered in black velvet. I lifted it with a groan, for it was quite heavy.

"I'll bring it back, I promise."

He frowned, but let me pass, and then I went back to my own room, where I already found Frerin and Dís stretched on the carpet, Frerin humming a tune and Dís pondering over bare slips of parchment, sucking at a quill.

I put my burden on the floor and got down on my knees beside her.

"What are you doing?

\- Invitations."

She smiled at me – it did not seem to bother her that she could hardly read or write yet; she had only learnt to scribble down her name weeks before, and still blundered writing mine and Frerin's, mixing up the beginning runes.

"You'll help me, Thorin?

\- Later... We have to rehearse first, right?"

She got up then, and Frerin took her hand and made her stand before him, his face very serious.

"Come, Dís. Let's warm our voices first."

She obeyed, and soon her clear, high-pitched voice ran up and down the exercises Frerin gave her in his own, slightly deeper tune. For my part, I sat down on a low cushion, and removed the laces of the velvet fabric, folding it up with care. And then I looked at it – my mother's harp, still polished and as good as new, though it was centuries old.

I ran a hand against the soft, rich wood, and then touched the chords, tentatively, wincing at the sound. It took me a good hour to tune it, bent upon the instrument I held gently between my legs, and when I finally put it against my shoulder, the move was so familiar and yet so intimate that I had to repress a sigh.

Frerin and Dís had stopped singing, and they sat down at my feet, looking up at me, their faces eager and shining. I cleared my throat and muttered:

"Have to get used to it again."

I put my hands on the chords and struck them, shyly at first. And then, finding the sound clear and comforting, I started to play. My fingers were stiff and clumsy at first; it had been long since I had played. My mother used to make me play every day, and she was an exacting teacher, training both my fingers and my ears. But after her death, I had only played during very short and private moments.

Sometimes just for me, when I knew my father was not there, those days where I missed my mother so much that it hurt to think about her – the harp was still in her room then, and I would get in and leave silently, my heart somewhat lighter.

Sometimes to make Dís sleep, on those nights where her teeth were growing and paining her. Every time Frerin had been ill, too, because in those moments he was missing my mother even more, though he never said a word about it. And every year, for Dís' birthday, at her own request – and because it was also a day where my mother was in all our minds.

My father did not play, neither did Frerin, and so this skill she had passed on to me was something sacred, not to be used too often – at least, that is how it seemed to me, and that is why I left the harp in my father's room and did not take it for my own.

"Beautiful...", Dís sighed when I finished, and I shook my head.

"No. Not at all. This is the worst way I ever played, and if we want to be ready I'll really have to work hard."

It took us most of the afternoon, to get ready and to prepare our surprise for Balin. And then it took us an hour more to get the invitations ready, because Dís insisted _all_ of Balin's friends should be invited too – which included pretty much all the guards.

It makes me smile still, when I remember how hard she made us work. We lay stretched on my carpet and I wrote invitation after invitation, in my best calligraphy, careful to shape the Khuzdûl runes the way Balin liked them, nice and even. And Frerin signed close to my name, leaving a space for Dís, and adorned the edges of every invitation with flourishing patterns. Dís dictated every word, and I had to keep myself from smiling at her style, and at the very serious way she signed every invitation, in letters broader than my whole text, her tongue stuck between her teeth.

"They will come, right?

\- Sure", I said, and then we went down to the guard's hall and put the invitations on the main table, giggling, while Óin who was sitting here sorting out herbs eyed us suspiciously.

And they came, of course.

That night, we dressed in our best clothes and went down to the hall, only to find out that most of the assembly had already gathered. Some had brought fiddles and drums, other flutes and pipes, and my father was there too, and even my grandfather. Balin sat on the front, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright, and when we stepped up to face everyone he cleared his throat:

"Really, lads, I don't know what to say...

\- Wait until you hear us!", Frerin whispered excitedly, and everyone laughed.

I put the harp on the stone floor then, bowed towards Balin and started to play. My fingers were surer now, and I knew he loved this tune, for he had often asked me to play it, the days where my mother was still with us.

I did not look at my father while I played – I did not want to put any meaning in it other than the sheer pleasure of performance, and making Balin forget his sadness. But I knew what he was thinking, for in a corner of my mind I was sharing every thought.

After I finished, I swiftly started another tune, and Dís and Frerin's joined in. They sang in two voices, as they often did, for both had a very sure ear, and it was beautiful to hear.

They sang about Durin, about his might and glory, about his never ending line and endless life, defying both darkness and death.

They sang about the falling of Khazad-Dûm, about the famous Bridge still stretched about endless depths, where the silver light of _míthril_ was still said to shine, beautiful and entrancing, like the moon.

And they sang about the Grey Mountains and the Fire Drakes, about our fights against them and our many losses, before we found our way back to the mighty walls of Erebor, led by Thrór son of Dáin, who became again King under the Mountain.

And then we switched to lighter songs, and after that to some of Frerin's compositions – by that time the assistance was roaring with laughter, and I had to keep myself from striking wrong chords, especially when Dís stepped up to me and whispered:

"He's twisting the words and singing all foul!"

And to be honest, Frerin's poetry was indeed breath-taking:

" _And then he asked, the mighty King:_

 _Where is my comb, that nasty thing?_

 _My beard's all tangled, so is my hair_

 _Oh it's a shame, it is not fair_

 _Someone has come, and took my brush_

 _And now I see myself and blush:_

 _My beard unkempt, my curls a mess –_

 _I'd better become bald, I guess!"_

"What _nonsense_!", Balin hiccuped, wiping away tears of laughter, and Frerin bowed, very seriously.

Everyone cheered, and I got up – I could not take it anymore, my ribs hurt from repressed laughter – and bowed along with Dís, while they clapped their hands and shouted their praises. Dís came up to Balin and he hoisted her up on his hip, kissing her cheek fondly.

"I am sure it was your idea, and what was that for, I wonder? It is not Durin's Day yet, am I right?

\- It is Balin's Day...", my sister beamed, and he spun around, making her turn and screaming in delight.

The other Dwarves started playing and singing, and soon most of us were dancing, our voices loud and merry in the guard's hall.

And when I look back at this day, I find that perhaps, it was one of the last truly cheerful ones. Without any evil, any suspicion, any greed or malcontent. An evening where the powers held in the Arkenstone's seemingly spotless shine had not been unleashed yet.

It came soon enough, though, and I was there to witness it, though back then I had no idea what it was that made my grandfather's moods change, slowly, treacherously. And had I foreseen the consequences – but it is vain to dwell upon that. I have failed too, and I know what the Arkenstone put him through, so I will not judge him. Not anymore.

The change was so slow, so subtle I did not notice it for many months, almost two years. True, we saw my grandfather less: he was often busy in the Treasure Hall, because Erebor's renown had grown even more with the discovery of the King's Jewel. Thrór's kingdom seemed blessed, safe, a stronghold of Middle Earth, and so every mighty House was eager to be equipped with Dwarven craftsmanship. Swords, daggers and knives – their scabbards gilded in silver. Jewels, also: necklaces, bracelets, brooches and rings. Silver plates and goblets. Warm, heavy carpets and woven travelling-cloaks, and belts – belts as beautiful as jewels.

They entrusted the doors of their Mansions to us, because we knew how to make them strong and beautiful. They let us ornate their windows, with carved iron latticework that would allow them to look outside while staying unseen – _mashrabiyas_ they were called in Common Tongue, but in Khuzdûl we name them _sanashîl_ , 'window-shields', and they are still used in our halls, though you cannot see them in any Mansion anymore.

The forge was lit night and day, their fires burning high, and the bellows were never allowed to rest. The Dwarven-masters were carving, forging, mining, while we apprentices helped to shape those wonderful objects that would travel across Middle-Earth. And the Dwarrowdams were weaving, sewing, adorning the heavy velvet fabrics we favoured with golden threads, pearls, and precious silver buttons.

Back then, everything that came out of Erebor was fit for any kingly house. And payment came, of course: our Treasure Hall was filled with gold and silver, great fires burning down there, making the walls shine with reflections of our wealth.

You would think Thrór would rejoice in our prosperity and success – he knew so well what it was to have nothing, having come to Erebor almost empty-handed, after the Drake had slain his father.

But now that Erebor outshone even its reputation of former days, my grandfather grew worried. There was an ever-present crease between his brow, and his smile and laughter had become scarce. And his mood was different. He was ever a very strong-willed Dwarf, with a harsh and unbending temper, but I had never seen him yield to anger without a good reason. Yet one day, I saw him getting furious at one of our stewards, because he had allowed a well-known merchant who had always proven honest to delay his payment for a month.

He was less patient with Frerin and Dís, too. When my brother was in a cheerful mood – as it often was the case – and was prattling away and singing and laughing, he would frown in annoyance, sometimes just walk away or even snap at him, telling him to be silent. And he had no interest in Dís' progresses either. He watched her writings indifferently, and did not care for the pains she took in learning to weave and to embroider – yet she was skilled for so small a Dwarrowlass.

She was also trained, not for battle – we Dwarves are very protective of our women, and do everything to shield them from harm, for they are few, and our most beloved treasure. Our Dwarrowdams taught her the secret ways of _Usrunu 'Arsâna_ , Durin's Fire-dance, among other steps. And I loved to watch her, and often thought it was just as hard a training as our battle sessions, allowing her to access her body, perfecting her reflexes and her agility.

I remember her dancing on Durin's Day, that year. There she was among the women, Erebor's youngest Dwarrowlass, a burning torch in every hand, her body gracious and supple, her long hair loose as she was spinning, drawing curves and circles with both flame and raven locks, guided by the beating of drums.

Her eyes were closed, and her bare feet seemed barely to touch the floor as she spun and turned, the light of the flame shining on her white dress. Her small wrists moved swiftly, drawing blazing lines as the torches hissed and burned, and Dís danced, oblivious to fire and danger, hand in hand with Mahal.

My heart opened, and I whispered the words of prayer then – _may our fires always burn, may darkness never cloud the light, may Mahal always guide every step of Durin's folk. May my sister grow and be happy, Erebor brightest and fairest Jewel, the moonlight of our nights and the sunshine of our skies_...

When the dance stopped it felt like coming back to the world after a blessed and oblivious journey. I looked up and saw my father – and he was smiling, his hard and closed face lit by the lights. I saw joy and pride in his eyes, and I knew then that Dís was the true daughter of the One he had loved. He did not say a word, but when she came towards us, her face still earnest and her brow crowned by beads of sweat, he bent down to her and touched her forehead with his, holding her face in his hands, his eyes closed.

I turned to my grandfather – but he was not looking at them. I was not even sure he had watched the dance. His gaze was dark, and lost in the horizon – he almost forgot to give the signal for the feast: my father had to lay a hand on his arm, raising him from his thoughts.

Perhaps that is why, hours later, when the night was deep already and the stars shone bright in the moonlit sky, I felt apprehension tighten my chest when I realized that my grandfather was no longer sitting at the table, and that I could not see him anywhere in the hall or on the outer balustrades. Of course, I knew it was unlikely that anything had happened to him. But his behaviour was strange, unlike him, and suddenly I was anxious to find him.

I left the feast and went straight to his rooms, but they were locked and the guards told me he had not entered them since morning. I searched the Guards' Hall, even the armoury, but Thrór was not there. And then, without knowing why, my steps led me to one of the lower staircases, where torches where always lit, burning high and clear, stretching my shadow across the walls.

I walked down, slowly, my fingers brushing the cool stone, feeling the air grow colder around me, as I went down deep and deeper in the heart of the Mountain. I came to the first balustrade and advanced until I could lay my palms upon the carved stone. And it was there I found him.

The fires were lit, as usual, here and there, and I froze in surprise, almost shocked, when I saw the amount of wealth that was gathered there. Not piles, but almost _hills_ of gold.

And my grandfather was walking between them, sometimes stooping to pick up a golden coin or a precious stone. I saw him smile, every time his fingers closed upon them, and it was a strange smile, somehow cold and unsettling, like the light that was dancing in his eyes – a reflection of flame or gold, perhaps, but it did not look entirely sane. He was humming a tune, from time to time, and as I watched him I suddenly heard him laugh, very softly, without any joy, as he bent upon a casket in which a soft white light was glimmering.

He picked up the shiny gems – it was a wonderful necklace I had never seen before – and laughed again, running his fingers through the precious stones, listening to their crystalline sound as he drew them together.

I left then, without a noise, letting go of the balustrade and returning to the staircase, getting back to the feast and taking my place back at the table. But I was not feeling like celebrating anymore – the serene joy I had felt during the dance was gone.

Balin watched me sitting in front of my filled plate, and after a while he put a hand on my arm.

"What is it, lad? You are not eating..."

I hesitated, and then I pushed my plate away, getting closer to him.

"It's grandfather. He – he's acting strange."

Balin looked at me with his kind, keen eyes, and suddenly it felt like a bad dream – my grandfather down there laughing softly to himself, bent upon the necklace, oblivious to the piles of gold around and the feast above him...

"He's down in the Treasure Hall."

Balin drew in a sharp breath and eyed me close.

"You have been down there, Thorin?

\- Just to the balustrade. It was enough."

I shuddered despite of myself, and Balin asked softly:

"And what did you see, lad?"

The words would not come out at first, but eventually I managed to whisper:

"He's walking. Picking up things and throwing them back. And he's laughing, now and then. He did not hear me coming. He did not see me watching him. Why is he doing this, Balin? Why is he not sitting here with us?"

I pushed my plate even further from me, I really did not feel like eating at all. Balin had put his arm around my shoulders, and I sensed him breathe. Several times, as if he was weighing each one of his thoughts carefully.

And then he smiled at me.

"He has some serious thoughts on his mind. We have made... we have answered a special request from the Elvenking of the great forest of Mirkwood. Thranduil is his name. He was an old, very old – well, perhaps _friend_ would be saying too much, let's say a very old _acquaintance_ of Dáin, Thrór's father. They fought the Drakes together, in the North, almost two centuries ago.

\- Really?!"

My eyes widened, and for a while I completely forgot about my fears. Balin nodded, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiled, recognizing the way I had always looked at him as a child, while listening to one of his stories.

"He has asked us for some very special gems that were guarded in the Mountain, long before we came back. They were entrusted by Thranduil to Thorin – the first Thorin, Dáin's great-grandfather, after whom you have been named – to be kept safe, because those were troubled times. Then we left Erebor for the Grey Mountains, and as you well know these were not peaceful years either. Now that Erebor is thriving again, Thranduil has asked again for the gems of Lasgalen, and because he knows our skills he bade us to mount them as a necklace. White and pure as snow – it took us days and days to shape it, and it is one of the most beautiful pieces of jewellery I have been given to see.

\- I have seen it...", I muttered. "It _is_ beautiful. Nearly as beautiful as the Arkenstone.

\- Thranduil is coming soon to claim it. So I guess Thrór just went down to assure himself that everything is in order. After all, Thranduil is a very powerful acquaintance, we would not want to cross him...

\- But Balin..."

I had broken free from his embrace and looked at him, puzzled.

"You cannot be right. There is no way Thranduil could have known the _first_ Thorin – he would be at least seven hundred years old!

\- Of course I am right", Balin laughed. "Thranduil is an _Elf_ , blessed with eternal life – or cursed, it depends how you see it, right, lad? He's more than a thousand years old, and has seen many Kings rise and fall, I can tell you...

\- But how come we have never met him? Him or any other Elf?"

Balin smiled again at my surprised, almost offended look.

"And now my dear, little Thorin is frowning, wondering why in twenty-three summers he has roamed the Earth, Thranduil never came to see him. Such neglect, right?"

I was frowning indeed, and he laughed at me, running a hand through my hair and making me smile too, eventually.

"Yet to answer your question, lad. They never came here because they do not live like us. They like trees, and Nature, and rivers. They are always outside, looking for the sky and the starlight, between the glorious crowns of their trees. They are not fond of rock and stone, and find it hard to understand that we can live in Mountains.

\- But there's no shelter in trees, surely?"

I could tell from Balin's warm look he loved to see me so interested and entranced by his words – I have said so before, his face never shone as much as when he could pass on his knowledge.

"I wouldn't know, Thorin. After all, I'm a Dwarf, remember?"

He winked, took a sip of ale, and then resumed:

"But perhaps there is. They love the woods as we love stone, they can talk to trees and even awaken them – just as we know how to listen to the wind's song along the rocks, and make them reveal their secrets to us... So you see, I think that maybe, even though we live very differently, some parts of our heart and souls might be alike."

He looked at me, and saw the dreamy look on my face – for I was pondering his words, and wondering about this mysterious Elvenking and his people in the woods.

"Come, Thorin. Have some dessert – it is Durin's Day, after all."

He pushed my plate back to me and I found that the dread I had felt had vanished, replaced by images so vivid that my mind did not know where to begin to dream.

"You'll meet him soon...", he promised me, and as usual, he was right.

It was a cold day, the day we stood all in the Throne's Hall, waiting for the Elvenking to come. We were all ready, dressed in our best attires with the utmost care, and I remember standing next to my grandfather's, close to the throne where the Arkenstone was shining, fastened in the stone above Thrór's crowned head.

I was wearing a heavy, night-blue tunic with many layers to keep me warm, and it was fastened around my waist with a large silver belt. The pattern always made me think of stars, which is why I often wore it with this tunic. It was very cold, and I was wearing heavy leather boots, reinforced by carved iron plates, and a cloak of black fur was wrapped around my shoulders, fastened under my arm gears, reaching almost to my knees. I had no jewels save the silver beads in my hair and my sword, and my fingers gently rested on its hilt as I was standing. Still and silent. Waiting.

Frerin was there too, dressed in red, as usual, and he had grown tall, reaching almost my size. His golden locks were drawing curves on his soft, brown fur, and the embroidery on his tunic matched his hair. He wore a thinner belt than mine, and bore his sword, but he did not touch it. I saw his fingertips brush his fur, every once in a while, like a child dreaming – and so he was, for we had been standing here for almost an hour.

Dís was not there, for she was not to be submitted idly to stranger's gazes. She was disappointed and almost angry, but she did not argue with my father, for she knew better. I have mentioned our _sanashîls_ – perhaps I should have talked also about the astuteness of our women, and the ways they managed to keep informed despite our secrecy. And Dís told me later she had seen everything from one of the upper balustrades, carefully shielded from every gaze.

He came gracious and almost silent, like a leaf carried by a soft southern wind – Thranduil the Elvenking from the forest of Mirkwood. And when I look back at this first encounter, I find that I cannot recall any words.

My grandfather must have greeted him, and my father also, as he walked upon the marble bridge that led to the throne, high above the depth, but I don't remember their voices, or his answer. My eyes were focused on his face, to the point of being almost rude – but I could not look elsewhere. He had a pale, smooth, beardless skin and very fair hair that hung long and straight to his breast, but what I remember most is his gaze. Blue-grey eyes under dark eyebrows, that did not reveal any of his thoughts and yet seemed as ageless as the sky – it was then I truly realized how old Thranduil was, despite his features that looked hardly elder than Frerin's or mine.

Thranduil wore a diadem of branches and berries that would have seemed strange and misplaced on any other – yet on him it looked as kingly as my grandfather's heavy crown. His dress matching his eyes was of an extraordinary grey, thin tissue, shining like dew in the morning sun, held on his chest by a brooch of silver branches.

And I could not help but wonder at the contrast between this king and Thrór. One standing, the other sitting. My grandfather draped in his heavy fur mantle, his dark tunic upon his scale armour, his broad chest covered in a jerkin embroidered with golden threads, and his beard the most regal attire of all, for it was woven with golden beads, and braided to look like silver scales, shielding his breast and heart. And the Elvenking without armour, wearing nothing heavy, facing us quietly, tall and erect, seemingly untouched by the icy cold around us.

He bowed, slightly, and so did the four Elves accompanying him, and my grandfather made a sign, calling our elder goldsmith forward. I knew what he was carrying, in the precious wooden chest, and I saw Thranduil's gaze sharpen and his body tense, almost imperceptibly.

I never guessed any of his thoughts, and never saw any emotion in this pale, strange face – except that day. When the chest was opened and the White Gems lightened his face, I saw Thranduil hold his breath. His eyes widened slightly, and he held out a hand – longingly, yet almost warily. And for this one and only moment, I understood what he felt. He had not touched them for centuries and yet, he must have remembered their shine, their cold touch against his fingers, their entrancing light, as soft and cold as falling snow.

There they were, the White Gems of Lasgalen, displayed on pale crystals, and Thranduil let out his breath and touched them.

Or rather tried.

For when his fingertips where on the point of brushing them, my grandfather made another sign, and the goldsmith closed the wooden chest with a snap, almost on his hand. He startled then, the Elvenking, and his eyes grew wide for a moment.

I had moved too, looking at my grandfather in shock, my face aghast – I did not understand, I could not understand. Thrór was smirking behind his beard, his face dark, his eyes fixed on Thranduil who stood still several seconds, gazing silently back.

And then he turned his eyes on me and I had to face this grey, cold, ageless look. He took in my face, carefully, as if weighing both my body and Soul – and though I was in the very walls of my own home, I had to repress a shiver. Then he looked at Frerin, with the same unsettling expression, and after that, without even bothering to speak to Thrór, he turned from the wooden chest and left.

His feet made no sound on the hard, marble floor, and I can still see his grey robe brushing it, his tall, slim frame almost gliding upon it, followed by the four Elven guards. He had not even stayed an hour.

I remained speechless and frozen on the spot, my heart cold and my mind racing. And then I turned to Thrór, the words passing my lips before I could repress them:

"Why did you do that?"

He turned to me and I bit my lips, wishing I had not spoken. He was the King, we were in the Throne's Hall, I had no right to voice my thoughts... But Thrór only laughed.

"That shiny Elvenking did not want to give us our due. For centuries we have kept these gems safe; days it took us to shape them the way he wanted them, and yet he would not pay. He brought less than half the sum we agreed. So I thought I'd teach him not to fool a Dwarf."

He bent towards me and put his hand on my arm, and I had again to repress a shiver.

"If you want to become a strong, respected King one day... Remember what is due to you. Never give something valued away before you have carefully weighed its prize, and don't let anybody fool you. Especially not an Elf. And now you may leave."

I looked at him, and then at my father, who was standing close to him, his face grim and closed. My throat tightened and my cheeks burned with shame – though I was at a loss to determine the true cause of that feeling: my grandfather's behaviour or my own. And then I left, by the same path Thranduil had taken, except that my pace was not silent, every step echoing across the hall, for my boots were heavy and iron-clad.

And then I ran. Leaving the halls, making for the staircases, trying to get to the ramparts on time. The wind was icy when I reached them and it bit my cheeks, making my eyes sting. I pressed my body against the cold stone, panting, and then I saw them.

Five thin and gracious silhouettes perched on strange, big-horned animals I had never seen before. Leaving Erebor without a glance behind, soon lost in the grey vastness of the bare and frozen Valley.

"He did look eerie, didn't he?"

There was a slight tremor in Frerin's voice, and he was standing very close to me, almost touching me – I could feel the warmth of his body, so real, so fragile, and this time, I was the one that reached out to him and pulled him close.

"Yes, he did.

\- His gaze chilled me to the bone...", my brother whispered, and I could only agree inwardly, my arm entwined in his.

"Look...", Frerin said after a while, resting his cheek on my fur coat. "It is snowing."

The flakes had started to fall, silently, each one of it cold and more perfect than the noblest gemstone. Snow fell on the ramparts, on the walls, on Dale's gilded roofs you could barely distinguish in the winter mist, and on the Watchtower high above the waterfall.

Perhaps it fell, too, on the Elvenking's strange crown, perhaps he felt its cold on his grey and shining robe, on his journey back to the Forest I thought I would now never see. And I could not help wondering, as I watched the snowflakes dance, so white and pure, if every single one of them was not reminding him of the Gems he had desired so much and lost once more, and how long it would take me to forget this cold and searching gaze that had turned my heart to ice.


	8. Chapter 8

**The King of Carven Stone : Part II**

 **Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)**

 **8.**

It would still hurt every now and then – the long, thin, silver scar on my left forearm. It should not have, for we are meant to endure fire and burns – we are used to the heat, we revel in fire, for it blazes in our forges and sets our Souls aflame, when we bend upon metal and watch it take shape.

But on some days, the blazing pain would awaken, only for a second, yet enough to bring me back to this one, dark, terrible day – making me shiver. Even though it only reminded me of ashes and furnace, even though the heat that day was almost unbearable. I who have always loved flames, their entrancing dance, the way they weave a pattern of shadows on faces and stones, I could only shiver when I remembered the heat of Dragon-breath on my skin – and the desolation that followed, for memory is both a treasure and a curse.

Not a single, dreadful image has ever left my mind since that day, even though I buried them deep in my heart and have always avoided to speak of them – we all had to endure, we all endured. But the ache never fully healed, and despite the pain and grief I would feel every time I was brought back there, I am not sure it was entirely an evil. My fingers would enclose my forearm, the pain already receding – but my conscience towards the dead was clear: I did not forget.

It would be unforgivable to forget.

This day of desolation was dark and terrible, but the months before were clouded and tinged with bitterness. Nothing good came out of this strange, chilling encounter with the Elvenking – I am not so blind as to deny it, though I might hate him for a thousand good reasons.

I had seen my grandfather haunt the Treasure Hall, I had seen him become irritable and act strangely, but that year his conduct passed all understanding. He raised the farmer's taxes, without any reason, and waved away his counsellor's and even my father's objections – and because he was the King they all fell silent.

And when the Men of Dale came to Erebor to try to bring him back to his senses, he laughed right into their faces.

"For decades my guards have defended your lands, and yet you will be ungrateful and deny us what you owe us."

It was Girion, Lord of Dale, who was standing in the Throne's Hall that day, and his face was certainly not as secretive and impassible as Thranduil's. He was a tall, strong man with a black beard and very dark eyes, and they blazed under his eyebrows as he spoke:

"Right. We will give you what you want, _Lord King_. You will get your money and your gold, but mark my words: one day will come when you will stand in front of me begging. And I pray it might come soon – the day where you will ask me on your knees for food, the day where you will finally remember that gold cannot save you from hunger."

He left without bowing, with broad, angry steps, and he dragged his son away with him, who had stood silent at his side. I knew him too – his name was Cillian, I used to see him sometimes, on the rare occasions I would still leave Erebor for Dale.

That evening my father called me to his room. I remember him sitting at his desk, several parchments spread before him, and one of it covered with writings and numbers in Common Tongue. He had taken off his chainmail, his arm-guards, even his fur-coat – it was rare for us to see him like this those days, and it reminded me of my childhood, when he would hold me on his lap and let me scribble whatever I wanted on slips of used parchment.

"Come in..."

He locked the door behind me, and I looked up at him, somewhat taken aback by his secretive ways.

"Sit down."

He pointed to the chair in front of him and I sat down, slowly, wondering what I had done – he seemed ready to scold me, and I was at a loss to find out why. Thráin sat down too, his arms folded and his eye dark and thoughtful.

"What did you think of the meeting today?"

He had asked softly, yet his gaze was shrewd and it made me uneasy, as I tried to find the words to voice my thoughts without speaking disrespectfully of my grandfather.

"I... I think we did not act as we should have, _'adad_. Lord Girion is a hot-tempered Man, but he has always ruled wisely and Dale is thriving under his care. They need us, for their trades and for their protection. But we need them for food, as he justly said. And the farmers on his lands, though prosperous, cannot give us as much as Grandfather asks."

I paused, wondering how my father would take my words. And I was surprised when he nodded, and smiled to me.

"You know Dale well. And though you are still very young, there is wisdom in your words. I think as you do. We should not ask for more.

\- But _'adad_ , the taxes are already to be collected. Girion even agreed, how could we stop this?"

My voice was not above a whisper – it seemed so wrong, trying to undo Thrór's foolish decisions in secret. My father smiled again.

"We will not stop it. We will collect them, and show them to the King. And then we will simply bring them back. Our chambers are filled with gold. Surely you do not expect my father to notice that a small amount he never needed found its way back from our doors...

\- But how will we give it back? He will want to know why you leave Erebor, you or any of the stewards...

\- This is why you are to go. Everybody knows you like Dale and always have. He won't suspect you, _dashat_."

I had conflicted feelings about this – I thought my father was acting wisely, and approved of his plan, and yet I felt terrible at the idea of betraying my grandfather's trust. But the fond word Thráin used, and the trust _he_ placed in me were reasons enough to make me accept.

It was one of the last conversations about Erebor we had together, and one of the last occasions where I still trusted him blindly and completely, my faith in him yet unwavering.

And so it happened that ere long, I was standing in front of Girion in his own hall, his Men, counsellors, and his son watching me silently, just like we did in Erebor.

"I come on behalf of Thráin son of Thrór...", I said, standing erect in this Hall of Men, whose wooden pillars were high and carved, and yet so different from the cold, dark beauty of my own home.

"He bade me to seek your halls in secrecy, to try to undo the harm that has been done, and as his elder son I stand before you."

The counsellors frowned and whispered, clearly taken aback, and even Girion's fiery gaze softened in bewilderment.

"What do you mean?", he asked – too astonished to shape his words so as to answer me politely.

"I mean that you honoured your word, by paying the taxes, my lord. Now it is our turn to provide what is needed, and so Thráin is giving back to you what we never should have claimed."

I took the bag I had carried on my back – a simple leather bag I often wore when I came to Dale – and searched for the metallic chest that was hidden inside, before handing it to Girion with a bow.

He got up from his seat and took some steps to meet me, but then he stopped and shook his head.

"What strange game is it you play, lately?", he asked, and my face darkened.

I gently laid the chest on the wooden floor, making sure that I was still looking at Girion so that he would not mistake it for another bow.

"I cannot say more.", I simply said, and then I bowed my head and left, my eyes still dark and my heart heavy.

I had almost reached the City's doors when I heard hurried footsteps behind me – Cillian was running towards me, his long strides catching up with mine ere long.

"Wait!", he panted, reaching out to my arm so as to hold me back.

His fingers closed upon me and I pulled free, but I could not be so rude as to avoid facing him. He looked at me, his dark eyes searching and his young face full of questions and concern.

"My father wanted me to ask...

\- I have not met him...", I answered, so low that it seemed only my lips had moved. "I have to go."

But that child of Men would not understand. He stood in my way, and still wanted to talk, and I cursed him inwardly, even though I knew he meant no harm.

"It's just... Can we help, somehow?"

I looked at up him, my eyes meeting his. I would recognize this black, kind and searching gaze in another Man decades after, long after Cillian son of Girion had ceased to breathe and was slumbering in his quiet green grave on the riverbanks. And I shook my head, slowly, almost sadly.

"No. You cannot help."

We faced each other in silence for another moment, and then Cillian stepped away, bowing his head as I passed.

"Thank you", he whispered. "We won't forget."

I left Dale then, without a look behind, anxious to get back to Erebor and yet dreading the moment where I would have to face my grandfather, knowing that I had acted against him. Had I known, that day, that I was never again to see the City as it was then, that those gilded roofs, beautiful arches and marbled mansions were soon to crumble down, shattered, destroyed, perhaps I would have embraced Dale with one last, longing, loving look.

But I did not.

It started to rain, when I reached the doors of Erebor, and it rained until night time, causing the Dwarves on guard to grumble. I was among them – for it was another of my grandfather's strange orders, that there should always be a watch on the ramparts, as if we were at war, or expecting to be.

Did he know, back then, what storm his greed for gold had called upon us? I cannot answer that question, but I hope not, and deep in my heart I think he did not. He was just protecting his Treasure, and never dreamt it would actually be taken from him.

That night, I was standing close to Balin, listening to the fall of raindrops on the pavement, and on the walls. I was glad to be outside, despite the stormy weather, and I actually raised my face to the sky, letting the rain pour down on me – wanting it to wash away this nagging feeling of anxious guilt that would not leave me.

"Finally someone who seems to enjoy getting drenched..."

Balin smiled at me, and then he too looked up at the clouds above us, blinking slightly as the drops fell on his face.

"What it is you find in those I do not know, but you seem to enjoy it, lad, and it pleases me. It pleases me far more than this endless and useless night-watch."

It was the first time I ever heard him voice any critic against my grandfather. He had been there when Girion came, and had tried to reason with him, gently, but he never had spoken his mind as clearly before. I turned to him then, my face still drenched and my braids plastered against my chainmail. He pulled them back, brushing my forehead with an affectionate, almost fatherly gesture.

"Thráin told me what you did. I am proud of you, Thorin."

I opened my mouth but no words came out, and Balin added, wrapping my fur coat tighter around me: "It was the right thing to do."

He turned from me, getting back to the walls, watching the Valley you could barely discern between rain and night, and after a while I followed him, standing again on his side. I was almost as tall as him now, and I bent my head to rest my cheek on his shoulder, feeling relieved at last.

And Balin inclined his head so as to touch mine, the raindrops falling on both of us, running between our hair and braids.

"Friendships are worth more than gold, Thorin."

Perhaps this one, wet and dark night-watch on the ramparts stands up so clearly in my mind because there was no fire, no flame, no warmth in it, only silence and rain. One last moment of peace before the Dragon's storming.

It happened late in the morning, after a windy, dry and unusually warm night – I had slept fitfully, searching for the cool wall in my slumber, and had woken up to find I had pushed my sheets away, curling them at my feet, my shirt and hair damp with sweat and my mouth dry with thirst.

I felt oppressed and hot, but though my heart was racing just as it did the one time I had lain in a fever, I knew right away that this time the cause was not in my body, but outside. The heat was not natural, nor was the dryness in my throat, and it alarmed me as it alarmed everyone else.

I quickly dressed up, and Mahal must have guided me that moment for I put on my warrior gear despite the heat, not really knowing why but yielding to an urgency I could not yet understand. Shirt, tunic, chainmail, jerkin, breeches, thick pants, heavy boots, and my arm-guards – I would not have survived that day, had it not been for that strange impulse to dress as if for war.

And war it was. I was sweating when I reached the ramparts, my axe and sword fastened on my back, heavy yet reassuring. And I found most of the guards up there, as well as Balin and my father, but not Thrór – Thrór would not leave the Treasure anymore.

"This is not good...", Balin muttered, looking at the heavy, grey clouds storming right towards us.

"There is going to be a storm...", I said, my lips parched with thirst, and my body almost wishing for it – cascades of rain raging on the dry earth, soaking it in its wrath, washing the dust away.

But my father shook his head, slowly, his body tensing close to mine as the clouds came near. A hot wind had risen, and it made the pines close to the Mountain creak, their sound aching in our ears as their branches groaned and cracked.

"No storm...", Thráin muttered, and suddenly his eye widened.

"Thorin, get inside. Find your brother and sister, tell everyone to get out. Do it now!

\- But..."

He grabbed my arm and pushed me back inside, preventing me from seeing what was darting down from the skies, aiming straight for us. I felt a searing wave of heat pass close to me, but my father had pinned me to the ground, shielding me with his heavy body, and as I recovered, trying to breathe again and to _understand_ , he hissed the word like a curse.

"Dragon."

It smelt of fire and burning, suddenly, and from the door leading to the ramparts I saw that the pines were ablaze, the flames red and high, like torches in the morning's dull light.

Thráin pushed me inside, hard, and I can still hear his voice bellowing:

"Dragon! _Uslukh_! Sound the alarm – warn the King! Guards and warriors to the main door, and get the women and children outside! To the door – we have to fight it, it _cannot_ get in!"

He turned to me then, and grabbed my shoulder.

"Find Frerin and Dís. Get them out. Now!"

I was still frozen in shock, and instinctively reached for his arm, but he pulled away, his gaze urgent and commanding.

"Just do it!"

And then he turned, reaching for his axe and shield, running back to the ramparts, shouting orders I could not understand anymore. My father, strong, cold-headed and brave – Thráin son of Thrór, as he was before ashes and fire destroyed it all.

I ran down the staircases and tried to keep calm and focused just like he was – I would obey him, I would get everyone safely out of here, and then I would return and help him face the Beast.

Frerin met me on the lower halls, his face pale and anxious – he had also dressed for battle, though he never had fought for real, and that sight gave me strength and courage.

"Is it true?", he whispered, and I nodded.

"Get the Dwarflings, Frerin. You know the passage out of the Mountain leading to the hills. You lead them there, I'll manage the rest – we have to be quick."

He nodded, and then he turned away – I saw him speak to several Dwarrowdams, urging them on, and then they vanished in one of the corridors and he was gone.

I have no precise memories of what I did next – I just know I was trying to remember what was supposed to be done in case of emergencies. Calming down everyone, giving everyone a precise task to do, reminding them not to waste time in gathering useless belongings. Only food, blankets, weapons if they could, and then make for the southern passage leading to the hills.

I ran up and down halls and staircases, endlessly repeating these orders, sometimes squeezing a shoulder or a hand when I saw someone ready to panic. Trying to keep some order in the chaos, for chaos it was – I still hear the screaming, and the clatter of panicked feet running down the staircases.

I did not see what happened outside, and I thank Mahal for it. The Dragon launched only one short and deadly attack on our ramparts, and then he turned to Dale, making sure no help would come to us from there. I did not see its walls and domes crash down, I did not hear the screams of Men that day – I only witnessed what was left after the Beast's fury, and it was enough to fill my heart with dread and rob me of sleep for months afterwards.

For the Men that fell in Dale gave us a brief amount of time to save some of our kin – and this I never forgot while my mind was sane. The City I had loved was destroyed and I was not there to watch it and grieve, for I had my own folk to protect – but in my heart I have always wept for Dale every time I mourned for Erebor.

I was running down the upper staircase, reaching again for the lower floor, having made sure that everyone was warned and ready on the eastern wing, when I heard a terrible sound and felt the Mountain shake. I clung to the walls, trying to steady myself, and the stone quivered again as the banging sound echoed a second time.

And I knew then what was coming.

The Beast was at the main door – months later Balin told me what he had seen, the wrinkles around his eyes wet with unshed tears.

It came in smashing down our thick stone doors just as if they were made of parchment, and with them crushed dozens of our warriors down. Then it sent a wave of fire that blazed against the walls and burnt the Dwarves who did not have the time to crouch, invading Erebor with fire and smoke, sowing death on its path, crushing down our walls, our halls, our warriors and our people, reaching for the Treasure.

I had fallen on my knees, feeling the Mountain shift and tremble under my feet – I who had always been so sure that stone was safe and unyielding, ever-enduring no matter what could happen. But I pulled myself up, still aiming to get to my father – now that the Dragon had gotten in, now that all was left for me to do was to run down these stairs and fight it.

I had reached the main Hall and was running towards the crashing and roaring sound – Death, Dragon, Desolation, Despair, these words would always echo in my mind when I would remember that awful noise, mingled with the screams of dying Dwarves.

But suddenly I heard someone shout my name, and as I turned around I saw Frerin, breathless and even paler than before.

"I cannot find her, Thorin. I have searched everywhere, all the Dwarflings from the upper halls are getting to the passage, but I cannot find Dís."

He was looking at me with wide, frightened eyes and I felt an icy hand clutch my stomach, almost making me sick.

"Where did you look?", I managed to ask, and Frerin tried to keep calm as he answered.

"Our rooms, father's room, the upper balustrades, every hall in the southern and northern wing... She's not there. I have searched, and called her name, I don't know where she is."

My mind raced feverishly as I tried to think straight despite the panic that was invading me.

"I come from the eastern wing. She's not there either. It leaves only the western wing – she must be there somewhere. Get outside, Frerin, lead them all out. I'll get her."

I did not even bother to look back and see if he did what I ordered. There was no time left, and Frerin had always been reliable.

I rushed to the western wing, suddenly remembering that these were the women's quarters, where Dís did not live but where the sight upon Dale and the ramparts was best – and she would have wanted to see what was coming. She was never one to shut her eyes to whatever was coming out of the wild to meet her, for she had never known any real danger. No doubt she would have got up there, trying to know what was happening and how she could face it.

The wing was empty: the Dwarrowdams had all run out, searching for their children, fleeing out of the halls as ordered, quick and efficient despite their fear, for there were old warriors among them who had seen war and knew how to fight down the fear and to keep their nerves.

But Dís was only a child, and had ever been silent in her worst terrors. She was so small, so quiet, and was not supposed to be up there, which is why nobody noticed her, kneeling motionlessly behind one of the _sanashîls_ on the upper balustrade.

She had watched Dale's destruction wide-eyed and silent, she had seen the Dragon unfold its wings, coming down like a hurricane on the City, she had watched him spit fire and death and heard the screams, she had seen the smoke rise where houses had stood. And all this dreadful time she never uttered a single cry, her fingers clinging around the iron lattice as if she was drowning, her knuckles almost as white as her face when I found her.

She did not move when I called her name, not even when I tried to pull her away – her fingers were knotted around the iron with surprising strength, and when I finally managed to unfold her grip I saw blood on her palms.

Her gaze was wide and empty, and when I lifted her, pressing her against my chest and starting to run down, her body was limp and lifeless, yet she was breathing.

On and on I ran, and this time I did not bother to make sure that everyone was safely out of the wings and halls – I just wanted Dís out of this nightmare of dust and smoke, I wanted her to lie down on soft, emerald grass, away from the Dragon's breath, where I could bathe her face with water and try to dissolve what she had seen with my touch and my kisses, as I always did when she woke up at night.

But I had forgotten that the western wing was right above the Treasure Hall. I know it is hard to imagine the complicate pattern of corridors, bridges, halls, wings and balustrades that we had woven deep inside of the Mountain. When my nephews – I cannot speak their names, I do not want to speak their names now, it hurts too much – when my nephews asked me about Erebor and heard me describe it, I had to draw a map for them on the ground, they could not understand or picture it without.

But the Dragon needed no map. He smelt the gold, he was drawn to it like iron to a magnet, and he found his way, through the main entrance, to the western lower hall down to the Treasure Hall, his tail crashing down pillars and balustrades.

And it was on the western lower hall that he found us. I had almost reached the doorway leading to a narrow corridor that linked the western and southern wing when the ground quivered again and I heard the deafening noise of stone crumbling to pieces.

I should have gone on running but I froze. Ash, dust and stone powder filled my lungs, making me choke, making my eyes sting, and I stood still for a second while Dís still hung lifelessly in my arms.

And then I turned.

The Hall had been crushed, some of the pillars had fallen and one of the heavy, silver plates we used to adorn the walls had fallen only inches from where I stood – but this was the lesser evil.

For there it was, the Beast, its clawed wings firmly rooted in the stone ground. I could see its breath – expanding its throat and chest, glowing under its scales like embers. I sensed its heat on my face when it bared its fangs, almost smiling, greed and hunger shining in its dreadfully bright eyes.

"You cannot escape."

Its voice was deep, raspy, like logs cracking and burning before fire twisted them. It vibrated through my chest and spread fear through my bones, turning them to stone.

"You will burn. _She_ will burn – you will not save her, she is already a dead weight. Perhaps you could use her as a shield, yes... It might give you time to run to that door. Do not tell me you have not thought of doing it, _Thorin son of Thráin_."

I had not. I had _not_. I clung to these words, desperately, with every hurried breath I took, facing the Dragon that pretended to read the blackest part of my Soul, and his smile became broader when he saw me tighten my grip around Dís, shifting her weight to my right hip.

He took a deep breath, and as he did I moved, swiftly, reaching down to the crushed and broken silver plate that had fallen at my side. I grasped the biggest piece with my left hand and then I turned, my right side out of its reach, shielding Dís with my back and shoulders, the silver plate between me and the Dragon's breath when he finally let it out.

The heat was unbearable, and I felt the silver against my arm twist and burn, melting itself with my skin as the Dragon roared, but the flames never touched my head or my chest and my arm never wavered. And when the Dragon finally had to draw another breath, I made for the corridor, my arm still outstretched even though my improvised shield was barely offering shelter anymore.

I had reached the doorway when the flames spread again, and this time the silver plate gave way, or perhaps I let it fall, the searing pain in my forearm weakening my grip. But still I ran, knowing the Beast could not follow me in there, and I did not stop running, even when I felt the thick air around me change to a hot breeze, carrying more dust, yet smelling of earth, not of stone.

I stumbled outside Erebor, my arm still curled around Dís' waist – for I was outside, I could see the dark, heavy clouds above my head, replacing the stone ceilings tinged with fumes and soot. I had reached the hills at last, and as I finally stopped running and fell into a slow, wavering, broken walk, I suddenly noticed how still everything was.

There were Dwarves all around me, I could see their frames and hear their moans, but they kept it low, and when my gaze fell on the edge of the hills that lead deep into the Forest, I suddenly found out why.

He was there, the Elvenking, perched upon his big-horned mount, his grey eyes taking us in – hundreds of us, dishevelled, coughing, moaning, crying softly and struggling to keep standing, while the Mountain close to us was quivering and fuming, the roars and screams inside muffled but still audible.

And behind him stood his army. Quiet, light, their weapons ready and their faces calm yet wary – and when I saw them my heart leaped up, for my hopes kindled again.

"Help us..."

And though my voice was hardly above a whisper, I know he heard me, because his gaze sharpened and fell right on my face.

"We tried to face him. Erebor is on fire. Please. Help us."

I swear I let these words pass my lips twice, Mahal forgive me. I was so young then, so innocent, it still causes me to laugh even now – and what do I care if it brings fresh blood on my lips, making me cough as I did that day, for my lungs were full of smoke and those few words brought ashes in my mouth.

He looked at me for what seemed an age, and yet he took his decision swiftly and silently, not even bothering to speak. He tilted his head and turned, and as he did so his warriors stepped back and withdrew too, soon vanishing behind the edge of the hill as my hopes shattered down, replaced by a burning and everlasting hatred.

The Elvenking had seen what fire did to us, he had watched me stand in front of him begging, my breath short, my forearm burnt and aching from the Dragon's breath – and above all, he had seen my sister's small, limp, helpless body pressed against mine. And yet he chose to do nothing, and let us stand alone in the ashes – for ashes were all that was left to us.

Hatred rose in my soul and its fire spread to my body, making me quiver – for this was a feeling I had never tasted before, and though it ached and burnt it was also warm and comforting. It made me feel alive when I ought to have felt dead, and I revelled in it, standing on the hills, watching them go away.

Perhaps the burning shivers that were still running through my body helped to bring Dís back to life, for they also shook her small frame – deep, racking waves of hatred and despair. She lifted her head that had hung against my shoulder, slowly, just like she was waking up, and yet her eyes had been wide open all the time. Her small hand moved, brushed my jaw, my cheekbone, my forehead – and as it did I turned to face her.

Her blue eyes were searching my face, still haunted by fear, trying to understand what it was that made me shiver, what made my gaze turn black and dangerous, what made my body tense to the point that every muscle was aching. And I softened when I saw her pale, pitiful little face, her hair plastered to her head with sweat, and the small, hurried little breaths she took, like a frightened animal.

"It is over, Dís. You are safe now. You are safe."

I was speaking softly – there was no hatred in me anymore, not with that bright, blue, desperate gaze, clinging to my face and weakening everything in me. I fell to my knees, slowly, still holding her with the one arm I was able to move. She was still stroking my face, her breathing shallow, and I held her close and rocked her, repeating the same words again and again.

"You are safe. It is over."

And even when her sweaty palms stopped to brush my cheeks and grabbed my shoulders instead, even when she began to heave, silently, her body still pressed against mine, not letting go despite of the hot trickle of vomit that stained both her dress and my chainmail – even then I rocked her, rubbing her back gently, never letting go of her waist.

"I am... s-s-sorry..."

She was shivering, her voice thin and brittle with tears she tried to hold back. I could feel it, just like I felt the next wave that made her double up – yet I did not let go, I just dragged her closer, letting her lean against me, not caring for the acid stench, not caring to be soiled, only glad to feel her against me. Alive.

It was Dís who let go of me slightly, when the spasms finally stopped and when she found enough breath to begin to cry, softly.

"I am sorry..."

She tried to free herself from my embrace but she was still weak and in the end she just stood there, her face slightly averted as she cried.

"I sh-should have l-let go of you. Now we are both d-dirty and they will s-scold us.

\- No they won't, dearest. We are together, never mind that – we will wash it away in the river."

I pulled her close again and she leaned into my arms, her legs entwined around my midriff as I stood up, slowly, still whispering promises in her ears.

"We will reach the water, and we will rinse everything away, and nobody will notice. It will be as if nothing had happened, I promise you. Nobody will scold you, _mamarlûna_. Stay close to me now, that's it, Dís. Just stay close, dearest."

The other Dwarves had already begun to move, I could hear their cries, urging each other to the river, some of them carrying the wounded or helping them to walk. I forbade myself to look back at the Mountain – I could not, I had to move on, we had to get out of the Dragon's reach, we had to regroup, organize and take care of the wounded. I also tried not to think about my grandfather, my father or Balin – had they survived the attack? Were they also reaching for the riverbanks, their hearts aching and their lungs burning, or were they lying dead yet still hot and burning in the heart of the Mountain we had lost...?

And my brother – had he made it too? I could not see Frerin's golden-haired head among the staggering crowd of Dwarves climbing down the hills, but then the dust and smoke was terrible, and it was hard to distinguish anyone, harder even to recognize which name belonged to the bent, broken, limping silhouettes moving around us.

My left forearm burned and ached, searing waves of pain shooting up to my arm and shoulder. I had buried my face in Dís' hair and it hushed my moan – the only sound of pain that would escape my lips that day. Dís gently rested her face on my shoulder, her little fingers brushing my back shyly, their caress so soft that I barely felt it.

And then I started climbing down the hills myself, with slow, exhausted, heavy steps, turning my back on the Mountain – the Mountain I had loved so dearly, the place where I had drawn my first breath, the only true shelter I could ever think of, the only real home I had and would ever have.

Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, that was now the Dragon's realm.

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations :**

\- _dashat_ : son

\- _Uslukh_ : Dragon.


	9. Chapter 9

**The King of Carven Stone : Part II**

 **Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)**

 **9.**

Water.

Shadowed by clouds of dust, yet holding the toxic fumes at bay, its soft roaring barely audible among so many distressing sounds: screams, moans, shouts, running feet clashing on pebbles strewn across the riverbank. Creaking branches – blazing branches, sending glowing embers into the air that would fall on us like burnt stars or fire-flakes, making us flinch and twist, always wary. Afraid of fire for the very first time in our lives. Yearning for water.

I was swaying when I finally reached the river. I felt streams of water pooling around my legs, breaking against my thighs – I had got in up to the waist, and Dís' legs were still locked around my midriff, her arms clutching my neck painfully. And I suddenly realized it was the first time she was out of the Mountain. She could not swim, and the water terrified her.

"It is alright, Dís. I am here. Don't be afraid. I am going to kneel down, but I am holding you. We have to get all wet, there are still too many embers in the air."

She was still clinging to me when I knelt down, her eyes wide and her face pale under the soot. And it was only because I _could not_ let go of her and _had_ to reassure her that I managed to hold back my scream when the water touched my left forearm. I jerked it out of the river, holding Dís with my right arm only, shaking with pain in the cold water.

She let go of my waist, slowly, and tentatively tried to stand up in the water, her arms still grasping my shoulders. She was so small that my face was still above her even as we were, and she looked up at me, her eyes clouded with worry.

"It hurts you...", she whispered, and I did not try to deny it – I was still striving to keep my arm out of the water's bite, my position awkward and twisted, the pain so sharp that I could not speak.

"Put it on my arm, Thorin."

She had extended her own, tiny arm, her hand still resting on my shoulder. I can still picture it – the water pooling around us, its course unmoved by our small, still bodies, and her bare, honey-coloured skin, so soft and cold, so steady. My own arm, heavy, wrapped in burnt garments, what was left of my arm guard biting my skin, and the shake of my forearm when I rested it on hers.

There were tears in her eyes but her voice was steady when she spoke.

"I will put water on your hair and face. The embers won't harm you, I will not let fire touch you again."

She cupped her fingers and put her free hand in the water, and then she gently rinsed my hair, on and on, bending softly before stroking me, always careful not to touch my wound, and to keep my arm out of the stream.

"Do not move...", she whispered when I tried to help her, loosening my grip around her waist, and I circled it again, still shaking.

I closed my eyes when she bathed my face and it felt like tears, the water running down on my cheeks, Dís' touch so gentle, her fingertips stroking my face, brushing back my half-loosened braids, and then caressing the hard metal shielding my chest.

"You are so pale..."

I looked at her then, and saw her gaze, the pain in her eyes, and above all, the care and love she always bore within. I pulled her against me, briskly, almost making her trip, and then I began to shield her from fire as she had done for me. My moves were rough, I could not be as gentle as she had been, and I poured water on her until she was completely soaked, just to make sure she would never be harmed. Shielded, protected, out of evil's reach.

There were hot tears streaming down my face now, I could not hold them back, not anymore, and I just went on drenching her hair, her face, her back, with fierce, brisk moves, until she gently laid her face against my shoulder.

"It is alright, Thorin. I am safe now."

She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I stood up, slowly, pulling her against me, wanting her on my hip again, just as she was when I had faced evil, and she understood instantly.

She had left the sweet, innocent child I had loved so much behind her in the cold, struggling water, we both knew it, and yet she wrapped her legs around me once more and let me lift her. There I stood, in the river, just like moments before, but now I was drenched and broken and I was the one whose face was buried in her hair, my arm resting lifelessly against her back.

"Thank you", she whispered, as my tears were mingling with the water drenching her locks.

I shook my head, trying to fight back grief and pain, trying to find the strength to leave the water, to face fire and ashes once more.

 _Endure. We have to endure_.

"No", I finally managed to answer, my voice broken and hoarse. "Thank you."

We faced each other in silence – our eyes a mirror, our souls mingled, a brief respite before we would be hurled again into chaos and hell. And then she gently brushed my tears away.

They were private, they belonged to us and to the water, and she knew I could not allow them to fall again, not anymore, for I was the King's grandson, perhaps the only male of Durin's line still alive, and I had to be strong and unwavering so that our people could survive.

"I will follow you wherever you lead us...", Dís whispered, and I closed my eyes, briefly, painfully, before I nodded.

I took a deep breath, and then I turned, leaving the cool, appeasing water where everything had seemed so silent, reaching for the riverbank and the nightmare that was still raging there.

A nightmare of heat, never-ending screams and hateful fumes. Between the swirls of smoke, I could see my people running, calling to each other, trying to find back to their families. And sometimes sitting, their shoulders slumped, arms wrapped around each other, their eyes lifeless in faces turned into masks of soot.

Dís gently freed me from her embrace, getting down, and it was then we heard it. The terrible scream, a Soul torn out of someone's body. We both turned, and saw a Dwarrowdam kneeling beneath a small, lifeless frame. She was rocking herself on her heels, still screaming, her fingers clutching the tiny silhouette at her feet, shaking it fiercely.

Shaking it in vain attempts to bring it back to life.

"I brought you out! We both ran out!"

Her voice was so hoarse, her face so desperate – I can still see her before me, I can still hear her. An old Dwarrowdam had stepped up to her, trying to embrace her, but she shook her off, still yelling.

"He's not burnt! Why won't he breathe?! Why don't you breathe – why would you... after everything..."

She started to sob after that, terrible, loud, heartbreaking sobs, and it was then Dís let go of my hand. I watched her walk up to the Dwarrowdam, slowly, her wet dress plastered against her tiny frame, and I saw her wrap her arms around her neck from behind, softly, drawing her distraught kinswoman against her.

She flinched and turned, and perhaps she recognized Dís and did not dare to shake her off, but I think not. For my sister's eyes were full of compassion and sadness – she knew that the deadly fumes raging inside the Mountain had killed the small Dwarfling, choking him before his mother could get him out, poisoning his lungs. And she was aware that she could have shared his fate, and that there were no words of comfort strong enough to be uttered here.

I turned from them – not because I did not care, but because I knew that staying there and watching such tremendous grief would break me, would tear my soul apart and send my mind raving.

For I do not have the strength that steels our women's hearts. All these years I have witnessed it, the way they would handle the most dreadful events. Crying loudly, screaming perhaps, not afraid to acknowledge the raging feelings in their Souls so that the world could see their grief and try to make amends. But never scared of so much pain, never hiding it away, and always sharing it between them, for there is a bond between women that is stronger than what we warriors could ever achieve, even on the battlefield.

It is the bond of blood. Blood flowing every month, unmentioned, hidden for fear of scaring us away – a secret between women, a private conversation each one of them could share, something that would always bind them. We warriors never talk about our injuries, we wear their marks on our bodies but do not evoke them once battle is over. Women talk – they help each other with the pain, with clean shreds of fabric, they are not afraid of handling blood as we are. For it means life to them, when it means death to us – I know that, though I cannot understand it. My sister told me so, years ago, after her second son was born, when she found out I would still turn pale when she mentioned his birth – I saw only blood, and the terrible risk of losing her, but Dís, she laughed. And then she put her arms around me, circling my waist, and whispered her secrets to me, trying to explain, trying to make me see and to take my fear away.

How I loved her. How I love her still.

My brave, wonderful sister who would face grief and pain where I could not. I turned from her, and then I searched for the place where they had brought the wounded – they were the first to attend to, and to be sheltered. I stopped close to every bent silhouette along the riverbank, and these words I repeated so often that I did not even have to think about them anymore after a while:

"If you can stand, follow me. If you are hurt, stay here, we will come back to you, I promise. Do not give in to despair, help will come."

And some followed – Dwarves and Dwarrowdams, wiping their faces, blinking at me as if waking up from a nightmare, and then nodding and standing up, following me along the riverbank. I was searching for Óin, for the women and the Dwarflings, for I knew that they must have gotten out, Frerin had made sure of it.

Frerin...

I was trying to help a Dwarf on his feet – he was not old, but his face fell when he tried to put weight on his injured leg and I gently made him sit again, promising him I would come back to him, when I suddenly heard a hoarse voice call my name.

"Thorin!"

I did not even have the time to look up. Suddenly I was in my brother's arms, feeling his tears on my shoulder, so overcome with relief that I barely had the strength to hug him back.

Frerin soon pulled away from me, wiping his face roughly, and then his eyes fell on my arm that was hanging limply against my side. He frowned, but I cut his words sharply.

"It's nothing."

My brother's eyes were wide with horror and I could see the clear marks tears had woven on his soot-stained face. He looked so young, so terribly young, but I could not allow myself to dwell upon such thoughts, not now, not until I was sure everybody was safe.

"Did you manage to get them out?"

There was no emotion in my voice, no wavering – nothing. I had asked as if it was just a simple question, a small business matter, not something that concerned the whole future of our race, and Frerin was taken aback by my coldness. Very well – it would not do for him to cry now. Not now, not today.

"Yes. All those who were in the upper halls. But the others...

\- Frerin."

I cut him again when I saw tears welling again in his eyes, when I heard his voice break – yes, it was heartless, for I had cried too, but now was no time for it. He looked at me, and then he took some steps back, trying to fight back his grief.

"They are with the women. Óin and me, we made them regroup over there, away from the trees. There are mothers without Dwarflings, and Dwarflings without mothers, but some are still arriving.

\- Good. And the wounded?"

His eyes still searched mine, he could not understand why I was speaking so calmly, why my tone remained so even, as if I barely cared.

"Still arriving. They are countless, Thorin.

\- They are not. They will be counted, as will the dead, and we will forget no one. And now we go to them, and we try to help."

I had clenched my fists, both of them, and the pain in my arm shot through my elbow and shoulder. Nonetheless, I thanked Mahal for the rage and anger he must have poured in my soul, long before I was born. For rage was the fuel that kept me going, right now and for the next awful hours – I forced myself to think about the Elvenking, blessed with eternal life, never in danger to die and who still had not helped. I pictured him, on his big-horned beast, looking coldly down on us while our Dwarflings died inside, while our guards were slain by the Dragon, while Dís was going half-mad with fear and shock in my arms, and then leaving us to our fate.

 _Endure. We will endure nonetheless_.

My brother and Óin had managed to lead at least two hundred of our women and Dwarflings out, and they had lost no time in trying to build a small camp. I could only admire how every single Dwarrowdam that was there had managed to keep calm enough to bring what was most needed: blankets, and the huge folded tents every family possessed – never needed since Thrór had entered the Mountain, yet still carefully kept and stored away.

The Dwarflings were around them, some of them crying or too stunned to stir, and the oldest among them trying to help our women. They were assembling the tents, silently, with swift, efficient moves, as if they had done it all their life, and yet most of them were born in the Mountain and had never dreamt to leave it.

I wish the Elvenking could have been there to see how they strived, our women, how despite tears running down on their cheeks they never paused until the tents were all mounted – until the symbols of every family in our clan that still had a living Dwarrowdam among its members were displayed on the riverbank, against the dark, heavy fabric that shielded both from cold and heat.

A mute proof that we could not be swept away so easily. The Mountain was ablaze, and the small, dark tents stood close to the river like tiny hills – dozens of them, each one promising shelter.

I helped them with Frerin, we gathered heavy rocks to pin the fabric to the ground, make sure the wind would not whirl them away. We did not speak, we barely touched, but sometimes our eyes would meet, and we both gathered strength from each other's gaze.

Óin had started to bring the wounded in one of the biggest tents, and we soon understood that we would need more than one for every injured Dwarf to be tended to. There would be wounded Dwarves in every single tent that night, and we tried to bring them all there, away from the trees, away from the burning Mountain that lighted this cursed evening like a second sun.

"Have you seen Balin?", I managed to whisper to Óin as I helped him to lay down the injured Dwarf whom I had promised to come back.

The healer shook his head silently, his gaze dark, and I felt grief tightening my throat and chest. I left the tent then – the wounded had all arrived, slowly, and the chaos had turned to a mournful gathering of Dwarves, around the tents and on the riverbank. No fires were lit that night, we had no need of it. No words either, except this one, anxious question, unspoken yet hovering like a ghost across the dark, roaring water.

Where was our King?

"Thorin..."

Óin had stepped out of the tent, trying to hold me back, but I was already walking away from the river, heading to the trees that lead back to the Mountain.

"Lad, please don't..."

But I could not – I could not listen to reason and abandon hope. I wanted Balin, I wanted my father, I could not bear to think they had fallen, and were left to decay in the Mountain's heat. It was a desperate attempt, but if I could try to get back inside and find them, if they were still alive...

But Mahal spared me that day. For I had barely reached the first trees when I saw them arrive. Their beards singed, their faces hollow. My father, shoulders slumped, his feet dragging on the ground, leaning on Balin who was limping himself. And my grandfather walking behind, alone, seemingly unharmed, his gaze wild and bright – our King, without crown or Jewel, yet alive.

I had stopped walking and just stood there, too haggard to feel relief, too exhausted to find words to ask how they had managed to get out, how this miracle was possible.

I just remember thinking that I was saved now. Thrór and Thráin were alive – injured perhaps, but alive. I could lay down this terrible burden, there was no need to lead anymore, I could rest now – my father was there, and my grandfather. We had a King again, and thank Mahal, thank Mahal it was not me – it did not have to be me.

My grandfather walked briskly, and he soon overtook Balin and my father, without even looking at them. He reached me but did not speak to me, giving me only a clouded look, and then his gaze fell on the camp stretched onto the riverbank.

He froze then, and stared wide-eyed at his people. He listened to the moaning and crying, soft yet worse than any Dragon roar, and then he just fell on his knees and rocked himself, on and again, lost to anybody else.

I would learn later from Balin what happened. My grandfather had been in the Treasure Hall when the attack started, and once it became clear that the Dragon had entered Erebor his only thoughts had been about the Arkenstone. He had rushed to the Throne, had unfastened it from the stone and had returned to the Treasure, determined to face the Dragon and defend his gold.

But Thráin knew his father well. Both him and Balin had endured the Dragon's attack, first on the ramparts, and then close to the main door. A falling pillar had been close to crush Balin's leg, and my father had been hurled against the wall, several of his ribs snapping as he hit the stone. But they were both warriors, and the oath they had taken to protect their King was above any pain.

They both made for the Treasure Hall, my father leading, and it was there they found Thrór, only seconds before the Dragon entered it himself, crushing down the last wall. Thráin grabbed his father by the waist, trying to drag him out, and then it happened.

My grandfather dropped the Arkenstone, and watched it fall down the steps, burying itself into the hills of gold he had guarded so jealously – he tried to reach for it before it vanished, but my father was holding him firmly, pulling him back. He was stronger than Thrór that day, and he shielded him when the Dragon drew out fire, pinning him to the ground just as he had done for me. The rest of his life he would bear the marks of the Dragon's breath, on his chest, his thighs, his arms – tiny marks where his mesh coat had left its prints. Balin helped him to get Thrór out, and they were struggling through the staircases, had almost reached the main Hall when suddenly my father stopped.

He did not say a word, he just let go of Thrór's arm and started to head for another staircase. And Balin was left with his struggling, shouting King – for Thrór only thought about his gold and his stone, and was trying to break free from Balin's grasp – torn between the duty to his King, and the friendship and love he had for my father who had vanished, returning to the fire.

He chose duty – Balin always chose duty.

And it was when he had abandoned all hope, when he had thought that Thráin was lost forever, when they had left Erebor already, that he suddenly saw him. Climbing down the Mountain, something heavy fastened on his back, his beard singed, swaying, his face drawn and his eye bright, yet unfocused and haunted. Balin just had time to let go of Thrór to catch him in his arms – he never asked anything of my father, never, and I wish he had, but Balin was a true friend to Thráin. Never forced his confidence, and never judged him – just like he did for me.

How we must have hurt him, though.

I ran up to him and to my father when it became clear that no help would come from my grandfather, and when he recognized me Balin had a gasp. He let go of my father, softly, and then he raised a hand to his lips.

"Thank Mahal...", he whispered, and I saw him avert his face, biting his knuckles so as to avoid weeping.

He walked to Óin who embraced him, silently, and I was left with my father who staggered slightly without Balin's support, his gaze still unfocused and restless. He was breathing heavily, and when I stepped up to him, calling him gently, he flinched and searched my face. And suddenly he grabbed my arm, his look wild and desperate, and I almost doubled up in pain, for his fingers dug deep in my burns.

"He is inside. He is with her."

I laid my hand on his, gently, trying not to wince as I made him loosen his grip, stroking his fingers.

"I know, Father. I have seen him."

Thráin grabbed my hand then, crushing my fingers, seemingly forgetting who I was.

"He – is – defiling – her – grave."

He had howled the words, like a madman, and I stared at him in shock as he started to weep – horrible, silent tears only drenching half of his face. He was still wringing my bones, as if I was an enemy he tried to fight, and suddenly he broke down against me, his heavy frame against my chest, and I struggled to maintain him.

"Somebody help me."

I whispered the words as I was trying to keep my father from falling down and crushing me.

"Please."

And thank Mahal, help was near and help came. Balin and Óin dragged my father from me, and he howled and tried to hit them as if he was going mad, and mad he seemed to me, as I saw him struggle while they led him to the tents to tend to his many wounds.

I was left there, standing, my world burnt to ashes and smoke once more. And it was then I saw the heavy burden my father had carried, abandoned on the ground during his struggle with Balin and Óin. I stared at it, recognizing the black and soft velvet, the graceful curve.

My mother's harp. Out of everything, out of every soul trapped in Erebor, my father had brought back her harp only.

Something hot rose in my throat and I fell to my knees, slowly, trying to fight back the image of him racing past the staircases, the panicked Dwarves, the screaming Dwarflings, just to get the instrument. Wasting precious moments, almost losing his life, oblivious to the distress around him, just for her harp. It was awful, it was horrible, it was mad and wrong, and it made me sick.

I bent forward then, finally giving in, finally breaking down. Ashes and bile I threw up, for there was nothing left in my body – the attack had lasted for hours, almost an entire day, and it was night now.

 _It would always be night now_.

I shivered as I wiped my mouth, feeling cold sweat drench my body. And then I rose to my feet.

I looked at the harp – and then I walked away. It would be there tomorrow, nobody would bother to take it, and I had no strength left in me to carry it.

I was walking slowly, my legs heavy and my arm ablaze, and almost stumbled into Frerin.

"Óin wants you...", he said, and I just nodded.

My brother took me by the arm and led me to the tents, and I tensed when I heard the moaning grow louder, when I heard the screams of pain and the sobs. I did not want to hear, I did not want to witness, I just wanted to lie down and cover my ears – but I could not.

 _Endure_.

So I walked into the tent, expecting it to be my father's, to see his massive frame stretched on the ground, reaching out in frenzy as he struggled and screamed.

But Thráin was not there. There was only Óin, and Dís, the old Dwarrowdam that had tried to comfort the poor, childless mother and several little Dwarflings that were huddled together, their faces white and emotionless, while another Dwarrowdam tried to hush them with appeasing words.

"Sit down, lad."

Frerin made me sit on the ground – I had no strength, no energy left to move, and when Óin knelt down next to me I could only whisper:

"Where is he?

\- We took care of him...", was his only answer, and then he gently took my injured arm and laid it in his lap.

"You have faced him, right? The Dragon...", he asked, as he considered the wound with a frown, his face darkening.

I nodded, and Óin shook his head.

"Damn him. Damn his folly and selfishness, leaving the lads to take care alone...", he muttered, and I did not dare to ask who he meant. "You should have come long ago."

I just turned my face from him. I could hear one Dwarfling cry, and the soft song the old Dwarrowdam had begun to sing, trying to calm him down – it was a sad, wordless chanting, the melody repeating itself endlessly, like a mournful lullaby.

Frerin was still holding my hand, his fingers entwined with mine, and at a sign from Óin he circled my waist with his other arm, drawing me close to him.

"It is going to hurt, lad...", Óin warned me, as he started pouring water on my wound, slowly.

My breath choked and I instinctively tried to snatch my arm from him, but Frerin's grasp was firm and so was Óin's.

"Easy...", he muttered, still soaking my forearm, and as racking waves of pain went through my body, I finally dared to look at the wound.

My tunic and arm-guard had burnt under the Dragon's breath, and the molten leather had pressed the cloth deep into my flesh. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, but the throbbing only grew worse. Óin gently removed the burnt pieces of my arm-guard, and Frerin pressed my face into his chest, his fingers still around mine.

"Just hold tight...", he whispered, and I clutched my brother's hand – my brother, the youngest Dwarf of Durin's line, yet the only one who had not lost himself in grief and madness.

Óin pulled the shreds of fabric from the wound, and my skin with it, or so it seemed. I was so curled up in pain that I could feel my own body heat, and the sweat that drenched my chest and forehead, but I did not moan. I just buried my face deeper in my brother's chest, breathing in his scent – even through the smoke, there it was, the faintest trace of sun-baked earth, and I clung to it.

I felt Óin's deft fingers on my skin, and then the biting of cold water around my arm as he plunged it into a basin. The pain worsened if possible, and I felt the world getting duller and silent around me as consciousness was leaving me. But just before I could give in to darkness and oblivion, the throbbing began to recede. Slowly, the fire in my arm started to ebb, and my fingers relaxed slightly around Frerin's. I opened my eyes and turned to Óin, cautiously, wondering what he did and wary lest the pain shot up again.

"Water."

He smiled at me, still able to marvel at Nature's powers despite everything he had been through that day. He always found his treasures there, even in old age – healer in body, mind and soul.

"Nothing better against Dragon-fire, once you are past the first ache. I wish I could find some herbs to ease the pain, and something to dress the wound. But I fear I can only offer you water, lad.

\- It... it feels better. Thank you... Óin."

He bowed as I whispered his name and I sat up to bathe my wound myself. Frerin let go of me but stayed close, and it was then we heard Dís speak.

"Take this. You use it, for everyone needing bandages."

She handed her under-dress to Óin, wearing her dress onto the skin, and he blushed – despite the fact that Dís was a ten-year old Dwarrowlass with narrow hips and a flat chest.

Her blue eyes were bright, decided, despite the weariness and despair in her childish features, and when he did not move she shoved the cloth in his chest.

"I don't need it. No Dwarrowdam needs it. They will all be glad to give it away, and they are cleaner than _Dwarven_ clothes anyway."

As incredible as it might seem, in the midst of all this despair, I heard the old Dwarrowdam chuckle, softly, in a cracked voice. And the younger one smiled too, hiding it quickly by bending towards a Dwarfling.

"You take it, Óin...", the old Dwarrowdam said. "Don't be such a prig. She could have offered you mine."

Frerin gasped close to me and suddenly I had to laugh. I bent towards the basin, ashamed, trying to repress it, but I could not. My nerves had given way after so many horrors, and I laughed until my ribs hurt, silently, my hand pressed to my lips. Óin's grumbling and huffing did nothing to help, and when he finally began tearing Dís' cloth to make bandages of it, I was almost choking.

There was certainly no reason to be laughing on a day as desolate as this, but I couldn't stop. I laughed like others cry, not stopping even when he bandaged my arm – and he did it somewhat roughly, clearly annoyed by the situation, struggling to maintain his dignity.

Everyone in the tent was smiling once he finished with me, even the small, orphaned Dwarflings, some of them giggling as they saw me wipe away tears of laughter.

"You crazy pack of youngsters... ", Óin huffed, getting up with a groan. "And with due respect, you are no better, _batshûna_ Itô. No better at all."

He left the tent then, shaking his head, and slowly, our laughter ebbed. The old Dwarrowdam – Itô – bowed her head towards me, offering me one last smile, and then she resumed her singing, as if nothing had happened. Dís came close to me and Frerin and I embraced them both, feeling exhaustion invading my body.

I closed my eyes then, unable to fight sleep anymore, and I was beginning to drift off when I suddenly felt a shy tug on my leg.

"Shhhh..."

I opened my eyes and saw the young Dwarrowdam hold back a small, chestnut-haired Dwarfling. She looked at me, her eyes apologizing and her face drawn and sad.

"I am sorry, my lord. He doesn't understand. I think he liked to see you laugh, and he keeps trying to get to you."

Frerin and Dís were both asleep, their bodies huddled in my arms, and I blinked, my own lids heavy with sleep.

"Just let him. I don't mind."

She let go of the Dwarfling and he staggered to me, his small face beaming. I felt him bounce against my leg and then he lay down on the floor, hugging my knee, his face pressed against my thigh.

"Sleep, _nadnith_.", I murmured.

 _For you survived_.

I don't remember stretching on the ground but I must have, for when I woke up I was lying in the tent and it was still dark. I had felt hands and feet against my body during my broken rest, and thought it must have been Dís or Frerin. But when I recovered slightly I noticed that the little Dwarfling was not the only one who had sought us. Half of them were stretched next to us, their little bodies entangled with ours. Dís was holding one of them, Frerin two others, and the chestnut-haired Dwarfling slept curled against my chest.

The two Dwarrowdams were also asleep, I could hear their breathing and saw that the rest of the Dwarflings was huddled against them. Silent and peaceful. Resting before the horrors of the following morning.

"We will endure...", I promised myself, breathing the words into the curls of the little one sleeping against me.

 _We will endure_.

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations :**

\- _batshûna_ : literally "old silver-lady", but in my headcanon a battle-distinction for Dwarrowdams who fought the Drakes in the Grey Mountains when Thror became King. Itô is one of those.

\- _nadnith_ : young boy.


End file.
